


Voices

by olehistorian



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 09:00:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 23,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2616029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olehistorian/pseuds/olehistorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes hear the other express certain important emotions.  This series of vignettes will form a complete story over time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Time: His Voice

She recalled the first time she heard his voice. The first time that the deep timbre and smoky undertones of his voice caressed her ears like the velvet inside of her gloves warmed her hands in the cold of winter.

Her arrival at Downton had been without incident. The train arrived on time and the walk from Downton Station to the house had been pleasant enough; the day was warm and breezy. She marveled at the majesty of the great house and its grounds as she rounded up the gravel drive. Making her way across the yard and to the servant's entrance, she set her valise on the ground and rapped on the door. A young footman answered the door and politely bid her entrance. He took her valise and directed her to the Housekeeper's Sitting Room. The footman suggested that she take a seat and he carefully set her bag out of the way. He explained that the housekeeper was on her morning rounds and that she was due downstairs in a quarter hour. The new head housemaid thanked him for his assistance and assured him that she would be fine while waiting for Mrs. Goode to appear.

As she sat there, she surveyed the room around her. The desk, the papers stacked neatly and resting in the tray, the knick-knacks lining the shelves. The pretty tea set on the table. She thought how this room would be hers in a few years. She had been brought to Downton with the understanding that Mrs. Goode was to retire in three years and if she thought the head housemaid ready to be housekeeper, she would recommend her to Lady Grantham. Yes, she could see her future. Housekeeper of a fine house such as this.

"Oh, beg your pardon. I thought Mrs. Goode had made it back from her rounds," he said with startled look, stopping himself at the doorway. Remembering that the new head housemaid was due to arrive, he collected himself and drew himself to his most imperious height. "I am Mr. Carson. The Butler. I presume that you must be Miss Hughes."

The commanding baritone of the Butler's voice intrigued her. His voice strong and a bit imperious with tones as smooth as a looking glass. She had only ever heard a voice like that once. It belonged to the minister of the kirk she attended with her parents in Argyll. That minister had a deep, booming voice that filled the village kirk warning little Elsie Hughes of dangers of eternal damnation and death in a fiery hell. But this man's voice, the Butler's voice, while imperious, had a undertone of kindness to it. He was very young, she thought, to be butler of such a large and prestigious house. She imagined that he sounded imperious in order to cement his authority with the staff.

"Hello, Mr. Carson," she replied. "I am indeed, Elsie Hughes. A very nice footman asked me to wait here for Mrs. Goode until she finished her rounds."

"Miss Hughes. Very nice to meet you. I trust your journey was a pleasant one?" he inquired.

"Oh, indeed it was," she answered happily.

"Well, Mrs. Goode told me that you came from Farnley Hall?"

"Yes, that is right," she chirped, unsure of his the intent behind his questioning. She wondered if he were making small talk or if he intended to make a point.

Mr. Carson drew his lips into a straight line and nodded appraisingly. "Well, Farnley Hall is a smaller house and not quite on the scale of Downton. I hope that you are up to the task. A house like Downton can prove challenging at times." Ah, she recognized, he made his point. He is sizing me up she thought. The condescending flourish at the end of his statement riled her, but she refused to show him. Always one to give as good as she got, Elsie Hughes remained calm and focused her most becoming smile on the butler.

"Well, Mr. Carson, I think you'll find that we Scots are a hearty lot and that I am quite capable of handling any challenge that I might encounter here at Downton," she assured him. 'Including impertinent butlers', she wished to add, but chose to restrain herself. Not just anyone would have noticed the noticed the slightest of smiles tugging at his lips. It was then that she realized he was testing her. He had wanted to see if she was easily intimidated; she proved that she could hold her own. She was intrigued. Perhaps this challenge would prove very interesting. Very interesting indeed.

"Well, then Miss Hughes," he surmised, "I believe that we shall get along very well. Welcome to Downton." With those words, the butler turned and walked across the corridor to his pantry.


	2. The First Time: Her Voice

He recalled the first time he heard her voice. The first time that the lovely lilting and dulcet tones of her voice awakened his senses like the warming sun that shone through his window gently awakened him to each new day.

Running a hand roughly across his face in exasperation, he sighed heavily. The cacophony of sound coming from the servant's hall made it difficult to concentrate and the figures in the ledger book refused to cooperate. He could not find his mistake and he had been looking for three quarters of an hour. Where on earth could five bottles of wine be hiding?

Despite the clanging of pots and pans and the hurried instructions barked by the cook, he heard something unusual filter through the chaos. The soft lyrical tones of strange female voice floated above the harsh noise the busy downstairs. His eyes squinted involuntarily and he inclined his head in the direction of his pantry door in an effort to make out whom this person could be. He pushed away from his desk and made his way to the doorway, listening closely. Scottish. That's the accent, he told himself. Softer than and not quite as thick as the new intern, Dr. Clarkson, at the village hospital; the accent called to him. He needed to wait for the footman to leave so that he could introduce himself to her. To see the woman to whom the enchanting voice belonged.

"Oh, beg your pardon. I thought Mrs. Goode had made it back from her rounds," he lied, startling himself and wondering why he felt the need to make excuses. He paused to take in the woman sitting in the chair near the door. So this was the woman that the soft Scottish burr belonged to? With her hair arranged becomingly high upon her head, slim waist, exquisitely pale skin, and handsome face, he thought that in another life she might be mistaken for a great lady. Lost in his thoughts for a mere moment, he remembered that the new head housemaid was due to arrive; he collected himself and drew up to his most imperious height. "I am Mr. Carson. The Butler. I presume that you must be Miss Hughes?"

Rewarded with a glorious smile, his ears tingled as she answered him.

"Hello, Mr. Carson," she replied. The rolling 'r' in his name intrigued him, especially coming from this lovely woman not much younger than himself. "I am indeed, Elsie Hughes. A very nice footman asked me to wait here for Mrs. Goode until she finished her rounds."

"Miss Hughes. Very nice to meet you. I trust your journey was a pleasant one?" he inquired.

"Oh, indeed it was," she answered happily. He noticed how she clipped her 'd's and his mind momentarily fleeted to imaginary conversations they might have one day. Perhaps they would discuss matters of the household or something, anything. Her voice, with its nuances and inflections enrapturing him all the while.

"Well, Mrs. Goode told me that you came from Farnley Hall?"

"Yes, that is right," she chirped. The rolling 'r' again, he thought, and a lovely smile to go along with it.

Mr. Carson drew his lips into a straight line and nodded appraisingly. "Well, Farnley Hall is a smaller house and not quite on the scale of Downton. I hope that you are up to the task. A house like Downton can prove challenging at times." The moment he said it he knew that it sounded condescending and he admonished himself. Mrs. Goode often told him that he needed to learn to sound authoritative without sounding harsh and imperious. He never meant it to sound that way. Of course, she would be up to the task or Mrs. Goode would never have hired her. He had put his foot in it. He simply wanted to warn her and to see her reaction to judge her character by her response. After all, she would be housekeeper one day and they would be required to work together closely.

"Well, Mr. Carson, I think you'll find that we Scots are a hearty lot and that I am quite capable of handling any challenge that I might encounter here at Downton," she deftly diffused any tension with a teasing tone. He breathed a sigh of relief. She had been gracious and not given him what he deserved though she did emphasize the word 'challenge'. He wondered for a moment if by 'challenge' she meant him. Was he to be a challenge for her? What did she mean by that? He noticed the twinkling merriment in her very blue eyes. He was intrigued. Perhaps 'this' Miss Hughes would prove very interesting. Very interesting indeed.

"Well, then Miss Hughes," he surmised offering the faintest of half smiles, "I believe that we shall get along very well. Welcome to Downton." With those words, the butler turned and walked across the corridor to his pantry.


	3. Comfort: Her Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mr. Carson knew that Mrs. Hughes would make a very fine housekeeper.

Her first year as head housekeeper passed quickly and she had become respected and valued member of the staff. She successfully bridged the gap between the older ones, those woven into the fabric of Downton and those who had entered into service for the first time. Gradually, Mrs. Goode began to allow her to assume some of the responsibilities of housekeeper, one of which included making the morning rounds of the upstairs bedrooms. Often as she did so, she and Mr. Carson passed each other in the corridor and exchanged pleasantries or information about the day's agenda. With each passing day, he mentally noted how she was progressing in her training. She possessed everything *Mrs. Beeton deemed necessary for the position. She was of a character beyond reproach and while she enjoyed frivolities, she never overindulged. She kept her appearance neat and handsome; he always noted that. He felt confident that she would make a first-rate housekeeper indeed.

"What on earth? Why are you sitting down?" he heard her question with a snap. He noticed that her voice sometimes pitched higher at the end of her sentences when she was tense or angry. Her speech quickened and her brogue thickened. He wondered if she was even aware of it. He stepped lightly down the corridor toward the bedroom he saw her enter a moment before and he stood quietly outside the door listening. He knew he ought not to eavesdrop but he could not help himself. He heard sounds of muffled crying and a soft Yorkshire accent.

"Oh, Elsie, I've done it now. She'll sack me for sure and not give me a character," the young woman cried. The maid, barely eighteen, was in her first six weeks at Downton and feeling overwhelmed. She was a good worker but Elsie worried that she was a bit high-strung and perhaps not fit for a life in service. The girl was constantly worried about making a mistake or disappointing someone. Herself, her family back home, Mrs. Goode, and Elsie, who she looked up to.

"Why? What have you done?" she questioned as she looked upon the young housemaid sitting on a chair cradling her head in her hands.

"I'm so clumsy," she tried to explain. "I came from a small house and this is too much for me. I…I…oh…." The young housemaid burst into tears again. Elsie felt the intense sensation of aggravation rising in her chest and she exhaled sharply. Unbeknownst to her, Mr. Carson heard this from his position in the corridor. He knew that a successful housekeeper needed to balance her emotions. He hoped that she would be able to do so.

Elsie stood in silence for a moment and drew her bottom lip between her teeth. She fought the urge to admonish the girl, to tell her to pull herself together, and get on with it. But then she quickly realized that if she were to be housekeeper, she must control her temper. She struggled with controlling a short fuse all her life. When she was a girl and her temper flared, her mother quoted the Bible reminding her "A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control." She steeled herself. She reminded herself that she too was a young housemaid herself. As she moved to stand in front the crying girl, Mr. Carson ever so slightly changed his vantage point and stood slightly to side of the open bedroom door. Elsie's back was to him.

He listened as she lowered her voice a near whisper and slowed her speech. He marveled at how the sharp edge instantly fell away. He reckoned she sounded like a mother or older sister speaking to a child. "Amanda, please tell me what you did," Elsie asked quietly. Her had tone moderated from agitation to concern.

The young woman refused to look up but instead pointed to a broken lamp lying shattered on the floor. Elsie drew her lips into a thin line and shook her head. Daft girl. A broken lamp was indeed a mistake, but Amanda was not the first housemaid to accidently break something while cleaning.

"What am I going to do?" Amanda sniffled as she looked up at Elsie.

Elsie clasped her hands in front of her. "What you are going to do is stop your sniveling and we are going to dry your tears," she said as she pulled a handkerchief from her apron. She gently wiped away the girl's tears before folding the handkerchief and placing it in Amanda's hand. Mr. Carson marveled at how, at the same time, she could sound both commanding and comforting.

The girl smiled weakly at Elsie. "Come on," Elsie began. Mr. Carson noted the hint of resignation that laced the edges of her voice. "There's nothing for it now but to clean it up. I'll help," she added. Mr. Carson felt a smile tug at his lips. Elsie could have torn into the girl, made her cry all the more, and recommended her firing to Mrs. Goode but she didn't.

As they picked up the fragments of the broken lamp, Amanda looked over to Elsie. "Thank you Elsie."

"See that you are more careful from now on," Elsie cautioned. She paused a moment before she added sweetly, "I will speak to Mrs. Goode if you like. She is strict but fair. She will understand that this was an accident." Mr. Carson's small smile spread from his lips to his eyes as the corners crinkled in pleasant recognition. She will be a fine housekeeper, he thought. Very fine indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mrs. Beeton's Household Management is an essential missive on the organizing and operation of a Victorian / Edwardian household.


	4. Pride: His Voice

"You're making it your own," his voice lifted in an almost lyrical tone. She arched her head over her shoulder as she continued to hold a hammer to a nail she was tapping into the wall. She noticed his head slightly down and tilted to the side, a crooked half smile about his lips, and his eyebrows slightly raised exposing merriment in his eyes. If she did not know better, she would think that he looked proud. Is he proud of me, she wondered.

"I am, Mr. Carson," she replied.

"May I help?"

"Would you hand me that photograph just there?" she asked indicating a frame on her desk. He entered her sitting room. Her sitting room. For it was now, finally, hers. Though he had been in the room countless times before, it was only to discuss matters of the house. Mrs. Goode was pleasant enough, kind enough, but also old enough to be his mother. But Mrs. Hughes, she was his equal now. In every sense of the word both generationally and professionally. He hadn't many friends and he hoped that she might be one of them.

He retrieved the picture – a scene of her homeland – and handed it to her. She carefully hung it, straightening it so that it was perfectly arranged.

Mr. Carson took a turn about the room inspecting the trinkets and personal effects that she had begun to sort. He discovered a box of handmade lace doilies that lay waiting to be unpacked and placed on a shelf or the back of a chair. He wondered if they were her handiwork. He noticed one photograph in a very decorative frame that rested on her mantle. He carefully ran his forefinger over the top and then down the corner of it carefully inspecting the subject.

"This woman? She is very lovely. She must be your mother," he surmised.

"How did you know?"

"The resemblance is striking," he murmured. His face dropped when he realized what he had said. He hoped that she had not heard him. He never wished to embarrass her and he certainly had not meant anything untoward. It was a simple statement of fact.

"Well, she was a lovely woman, Mr. Carson. Both inside and out. And if I resemble her in any way, I shall gladly accept that as a compliment," Elsie cheered. Once again, she soothed his ruffled feathers. She seemed to have a knack for that, he noticed.

Later that evening, Mrs. Hughes still had a few boxes to unpack and Mr. Carson returned to her sitting room. His had completed his duties for the evening and the younger staff had retreated off to their rooms. Only Mrs. Patmore still rattled about in the kitchen, finishing her menus for tomorrow's evening meal. Mrs. Hughes was arranging items on her open china cabinet when she heard Mr. Carson clear his throat announcing his presence.

"I...I...have something for you, Mrs. Hughes," he stuttered as he handed a prettily wrapped box to her. She made to sit on a chair and offered her swivel chair to him. "I didn't wrap it of course," he continued. "Or else it would have looked like a child did it." He laughed nervously. Mr. Carson never seemed nervous she noted. What had gotten into him, she wondered.

"Mr. Carson, you needn't have gotten me a present," she said half-heartedly. She loved presents, though he did not know that. Yet. She proceeded to tear the paper away carefully and open the box. She pulled back the thick brown paper inside to reveal a lovely tea set. She set the box on the floor and pulled out a delicate china teapot, four teacups and saucers, a creamer, and sugar pot to match. "Mr. Carson, you shouldn't have," Elsie said genuinely moved. It had been years since anyone had given her a gift such as this. "It must have cost a fortune," she asked as she delicately inspected the teapot.

His chest puffed up a little and his chin jutted forward just the slightest bit. Her happiness at his gift pleased him. "It was my mother's," he answered. She looked up from the teapot at him.

"I couldn't possibly," she protested. "Haven't you a sister or a cousin to whom you might like to pass it down?"

Mr. Carson looked down to his shoes. He hoped his gift had not been too intimate, too forward. He intended it as a friendly gesture. He desperately needed an ally in the house and he and Mrs. Hughes seemed to get on so well. She seemed to tolerate him better than most and he profoundly enjoyed her company. She had taken to her training so very well and for the first time Downton would have a relatively young butler and housekeeper at the helm.

"I have no brother or sister or close family, Mrs. Hughes," he spoke quietly to his feet. He paused a moment before looking up at her. "I wanted to," his voice quivering slightly, "That is to say, I am pr…I mean, I wanted to congratulate you on becoming Housekeeper. Not many women have accomplished what you have so quickly in their careers," he finished sounding every inch the proud friend. "And every housekeeper should have a proper tea set. I noticed that you did not. So I thought that, well..."

"I thank you Mr. Carson. Very much," she accepted his gift and his explanation.

Mr. Carson made to leave. "Oh, Mr. Carson, perhaps you will be my first guest for tea?"

He simply smiled in answering and left her room.


	5. Pride: Her Voice

They returned from the ceremony in relative quiet. Mr. Carson was pleasant enough but seemed distracted much of the walk home. They discussed a few matters of the household and not much more. These things he could talk about without much effort. No matter. Sometimes, he could be grumpy and she knew to give him a wide berth. However, her pleasure at seeing the "old bat" squirm at the announcement of Mrs. Crawley as co-chairwoman of the village hospital carried her through the rest of a very hectic day. She wisely chose to say nothing more on the matter as she wished not to inflame her friend. She noticed that Mr. Carson seemed preoccupied and unusually quiet. He barely spoke at luncheon and she watched as he kept his head down, studying his stew. He turned the spoon over and over again without thinking. She watched him as he obviously agonized over some problem. She reflected back upon the words he had spoken earlier that morning. Sometimes I wonder if I am not a sad, old fool putting on airs and graces I have no right to. She knew that he could be given to melodrama but this seemed different, deep and cutting. They had shared much of their lives with one another; things that they could share with no one else. They were equals, colleagues, and friends. Very dear friends. But she sensed that she would have to wait for him to come to her with whatever this was.

The lateness of the hour was not lost upon her as she made a last check over the order for the greengrocer. The lines on the order slip were beginning to run together; she really must purchase a pair of reading glasses soon. Mr. Carson had not stepped into her room to ask her to join him for a sherry; she presumed that he had his own business to attend. As she ticked off the items necessary to order, she paused slightly when she heard his footsteps near her door. But before he reached her sitting room, he paused and then she heard him turn and retreat to his pantry. He closed the door behind him.

She quickly finished her order and capped her pen. He had wanted to come to her but something held him back. The decision was made. She decided that she would go to him. If she offered a friendly ear, then perhaps he could work through whatever problem was burdening him. She made her way to his pantry and tapped on the door lightly. She opened the door slowly and found him staring at a small piece of yellowed paper on his desk.

"Mr. Carson, I thought I might make some tea, if you'd like to join me," she offered quietly, her voice a calm and steady presence amidst the turmoil of his mind.

"I would, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you," he replied in a voice so weary it was near a whisper.

After she prepared tea, she rejoined him in his pantry and they sat in silence for a few moments. The tension palpable. She could not understand why. They had developed a strong friendship filled with gentle teasing, clever banter, and even argument or two. They always supported one another and she relished the attention he paid her. He valued her opinions and though she would deny it to anyone who dared to suggest it, she did love it when she caught him admiring her figure. He felt that she was the only one in the house that he could be completely himself with; he felt easy with her. She tolerated none of his bluster and they both appreciated hard work and doing things properly. For all of his talk of propriety and the upholding the honor of the house, he feared that what he would tell her would alter their friendship forever.

"Mrs. Hughes, I am afraid that if I tell you," he paused and looked to his feet. She wanted to reach out to him, perhaps just to touch his hand and offer a measure of comfort or a kind word of encouragement. Instead, she remained quiet and allowed him to collect his thoughts. When he looked back up, he found sympathetic eyes and an open heart. "I am afraid that you might view me differently," he finished; the edges of his voice tinged with profound sadness and shame.

She tilted her head slightly and her lips parted slightly. She was well and truly astonished. What could he have done that could possibly change how she perceived him? He was her friend; her very good friend. "Mr. Carson, I highly doubt that anything you could tell me would alter my esteem for you," she promised in a lovely velvety voice.

He looked away again. He knew that she would be disappointed in him. At the very least, she would see him as a hypocrite. How ironic, the thought flashed through his mind. That the ancient name for an actor was hypocrite – someone with two faces. How could he look at her and how could she respect him ever again. A long silence hung in between them as Mrs. Hughes quietly sipped her tea.

When he began again, he revealed the entire sorted story. He showed her the yellowed advertisement for the 'Cheerful Charlies'. She took it, looked at it appraisingly; he noticed that her expression never changed. She had made no judgments. Not pronouncements. She listened intently as he finished with how he and Grigg entertained all over London and then parted ways when Grigg began to steal. He told her of how he returned to Downton like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs and how the Dowager and the late Earl took him back with no questions asked.

"And there you have it Mrs. Hughes," he finished. "So you see, I am not a man of honor and integrity. I am not the man you think me to be."

Mrs. Hughes worried her bottom lip and looked away from him for a moment. He knew that she thought less of him that she was trying to think of some polite response. "Mr. Carson," she began. He noticed tears in her eyes. He just knew that she was very disappointed in him. "Mr. Carson, thank you for sharing this with me," she offered quietly, her voice brittle around the edges. She was moved that this very private man felt secure in their friendship to share this deeply shameful secret with her.

"I've disappointed you," his voice cracked with emotion as he hung his head.

"Mr. Carson, you've not disappointed me," she assured him, a bit of irritation almost present in her tone. How dare he think that this, this incident in his youth could make him any less to her, she thought. "You've only done what many young people have done. You left home to spread your wings. There is no shame in that."

He found the courage to look up. "No?" he questioned, barely audible.

She shook her head. "No, Mr. Carson. I dare say the experience may have helped you as Butler," she laughed merrily. He looked puzzled. But she had laughed. Somehow, he felt at ease. She was not disappointed with him. "How much of a dinner service is a performance? Style and show?" Her brilliant smile proved infectious as he smiled now as well. Daft man.

She collected the tea tray and made to leave when he thanked her. "Mrs. Hughes, thank you for listening and giving me a boost of confidence."

"Mr. Carson, you will always be a man of honor and integrity in my eyes. Nothing will ever change that," she replied in a silky tone as she swept out of his pantry.


	6. Coarseness: Her Voice

She was thankful that the overcast sky further darkened the downstairs. The only light in her sitting room came from the small lamp on her desk and even the soft light that it cast, caused her head to throb. She instinctively rubbed her temples, though she could never understand why people did that; it never helped. Elsie Hughes had been plagued with searing headaches since she was a young woman and she usually took a powder and retired to bed. Yet today, she felt that she needed to work. Her Ladyship had asked her to plan a large house party on a week's notice and she needed to finish the accounts ledger, but she could not make heads nor tails of it. She looked at the clock: half past nine. It felt as if it were half past four. As she attempted to reconcile her figures, the lead on her pencil broke and she reached to her desk drawer for a freshly sharpened one. She pulled once, then twice, but the drawer would not open.

Mr. Carson stood in the corridor just outside the doorway with an amused look as he watched the housekeeper struggling with the stubborn desk drawer. As she pulled and tugged on the drawer pull and it failed to give more than a couple centimeters, she mumbled under her breath. He imagined that the offending piece of furniture had gotten the full force of Mrs. Hughes formidable temper. Mr. Carson felt a bit ashamed of himself as he smirked and stifled a small laugh. He recognized that he should offer his help and just as he began to move into her room, she stood, and with all her force gave one final and mighty tug on the drawer pull. Having been unsuccessful again, Mrs. Hughes muttered a few choice words under her breath and then her final word cut across the stillness like a hot knife through butter. She said it quickly and decisively, clipping the final letter of that word with such anger and force that she may have well cut it with the dainty yet serviceable scissors that hung at her hip. She had left little doubt that her tongue was far sharper.

Mr. Carson's mouth fell open and his eyes widened; before he had the opportunity to turn and leave her in peace, to spare her any embarrassment, she turned around stared him full in the face. She was mortified. A lady never uttered the words she just had and certainly not in front of Charles Carson. To cover her embarrassment, she turned her fire on him. "You look like an owl perched on a branch spying on me," she spat out furiously, her brogue fully engaged. "How long have you been standing there," she demanded in her most imperious tone. She had sent many housemaids scurrying away in tears when she spoke in this manner. She had even managed to best Beryl Patmore once with this harsh, scathing tone.

Flustered, he thought of lying, but he knew that she always saw right through him. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides and decided to reply truthfully. "Long enough to wonder if I actually heard those words, that word, come out of your mouth, Mrs. Hughes," he replied quietly as he looked to see if anyone was watching them, then quickly entered her sitting room and closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Hughes's eyes flashed blue fire. She was furious with him for eavesdropping and furious with herself for losing control. Of her temper, of her choice of words, of her control. Her lips drew into a thin line as she fired back at him, her eyes narrow and lips taught, "And if you did? What of it?" The normal smooth tones of her voice had been replaced by tannic ones She was determined not to budge an inch.

"I doubt coarse language like that is heard in The Royal Navy," Mr. Carson retorted with obnoxious superiority.

"Well, Mr. Carson, I dare say you've not known many sailors then," Mrs. Hughes barked back sourly with a mixture of sarcasm and incredulity at the ridiculousness of his comment

Shocked at the audacity of her comment, he thought it best not to comment further but could not help himself. "What if your maids had heard?" he asked in the same deep, imperious tone he used to reprimand errant footmen.

At this, Mrs. Hughes lost her resolve and burst into tears, a hand flying to her mouth. "I am so sorry Mr. Carson. I have an excruciating headache, Her Ladyship's house party, and the ledgers, and then the drawer, and oh…." she continued to sob.

"May I have a try?" he asked. She gestured for him to try his hand with the stubborn drawer. He gingerly pulled on the drawer until it stopped in the exact location as it had before. He heard a huff of "I told you so" come from the housekeeper. "May I see your paper knife, please?" Mrs. Hughes watched as he took the paper knife and slipped it into the open space in the drawer opening. She watched as he worked delicately and then gently tugged on the drawer pull. "Ah," he said in a self-satisfied tone. He reached into the drawer and retrieved a pencil. "This was the object of your consternation, Mrs. Hughes. It was lodged wrongly causing the drawer to catch."

This revelation caused the housekeeper to both laugh and cry as she thanked the butler. "Mr. Carson, I am not sure where that salty language came from. I've not been in the Royal Navy," she sniffled.

Mr. Carson sat the pencil on her desk and took his handkerchief from his pocket. He pressed it into her hand and she could not help but notice the pleasing smell of his cologne as she dried her tears. Mr. Carson ordered her to bed until she felt well, despite her weak protest. She did feel horrible, both physically, mentally, and now that she had mortified herself in front of Mr. Carson, emotionally.

A half hour later, Mrs. Hughes heard a light knock in her door and she bid the visitor entrance. She smiled faintly at Anna as she entered the darkened room and set a tray down on the dresser. "Mr. Carson asked me to bring you this," Anna offered the housekeeper a headache powder mixed with a glass of water.

"That was very kind of him," Mrs. Hughes quietly replied as she gratefully took the glass and drank the contents. "Thank you for bringing it to me Anna."

Anna retrieved two flannels from the tray and dredged them through the icy cold water in the basin. She wrung much of the dripping water from them and placed them across Mrs. Hughes forehead. Mrs. Hughes closed her eyes and sighed in relief. "The cold helps," she sighed closing her eyes.

"Mr. Carson suggested adding the ice to the water so that it will stay cold longer," Anna added with a knowing smile.

"Mmmm. Tell him that I thank him," Mrs. Hughes sleepily replied as the powders and fatigue eased her to sleep.

When she finally awoke, clear headed and pain free, Mrs. Hughes made her way downstairs. It was very late and she presumed that everyone had gone to bed long ago, but as she descended the staircase and made her way to the kitchen, she noticed a soft glow of light creeping from under the closed door of her sitting room. She thought that perhaps Anna might have left the light on, so she entered in order to switch the light off. Instead of finding an empty sitting room, she found a bear of a butler hunched over her small desk adding figures. She smiled.

"I thought you might be afraid to ever return to my sitting room," she laughed. He noted that the throaty chuckle had returned. He was thankful for that.

The butler swiveled round and met her smile with a half one of his own. "Well, I wanted to make sure that this drawer wouldn't stick again," he replied as he pulled the offending drawer in and out. "Mrs. Patmore left some sandwiches for you. She thought that you might be hungry since you missed luncheon and tea." Mrs. Hughes had a feeling that it might have been Mr. Carson who asked Mrs. Patmore to leave the sandwiches for her. She was truly touched.

"Would you join me?" she asked. "I promise to mind my manners."

"Mind your manners? I have no idea what you are speaking about," Mr. Carson offered generously.

As they sat at the table in the kitchen enjoying their sandwiches, they enjoyed an easy conversation. Mr. Carson remarked on how the ship of Downton sailed through choppy waters whenever its Lieutenant Commander was in the sick bay. Mrs. Hughes chuckled heartily at his use of navy metaphors considering her salty language earlier that morning.


	7. Coarseness: His Voice

It was not the first time that she had heard him swear but it was certainly the most memorable. Charles Carson had long instilled fear into most of the servants that passed through the halls of the Abbey. His imperious nature, exacting standards, and attention to detail had earned him the reputation of a stern, but fair captain. He rarely lost complete control of himself for that would have meant that he let the standards of the house slip and he was loathe to be the cause of that. He blustered from time to time and may have a harsh word for a lazy footman or an inept maid, but Charles Carson inspired fear by his example. He was the perfect servant. The perfect butler. She laughed to herself as she thought back to the night that his perfect façade cracked, just for a moment.

Many of the servants had convened in the servants' hall, as most of their duties for the evening were complete. Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley chatted about the new picture showing at the cinema in Ripon, deciding whether they wished to chance and see it. Madge busied herself mending a loose hem on Lady Edith's blouse while Mrs. Hughes repaired Mr. Carson's socks. The evening, thankfully, she thought had been a quiet one. No problems to solve; no major crises. As the evening wore on, the kitchen maids lay the plates for the servants' supper and began to bring in the stew, breads, and tea. As hungry servants began to find their way to the servants' table, they waited patiently for Mr. Carson to descend the stairs and assume his position at the head of the table. Their chatter quieted as they heard the familiar sounds of the butler's footsteps on the staircase. As he approached the doorway, the scraping sound of chairs against the stone floor echoed across the room as they stood for him but Mrs. Hughes looked up to find Mr. Carson sprinting for the back door. His countenance thunderous and his jaw clenched, Mr. Carson pushed through the door with amazing force, slamming the door shut behind him. Mrs. Hughes sighed deeply as she raised an eyebrow. She wondered what on earth had happened to drive him into this apoplectic state. She motioned for the servants to sit; they would wait for his return.

Once in the yard, Mr. Carson clenched and unclenched his hands. He balled a fist and pounded it into the open palm of the other. He felt himself in a state of near hysteria. He was furious. How could it have happened? How could it have possibly happened? Suddenly, Mr. Carson's rage spilled over like a volcanic eruption spewing forth lava. His voice sounded like thunder and the words flew out like lightning bolts.

"Goddamn Thomas. Fucking imbecile. Who does he think he is? A fucking Adonis? Looking at himself in the goddamn mirror like that! Fucking Narcissus, he is! So busy looking at himself that he tripped and dropped the fucking crystal decanter in the middle of the goddamn table. Wine everywhere. The Dowager's dress fucking ruined! Broken dishes. I could fucking throttle him! "

When Mr. Carson re-entered the servants' hall, he closed the door quietly. He surveyed the table around him as he took his customary place at the head of the table. The sound of the chairs pushing back slowly screeched across the stone floor; the stunned servants tried to make as little noise as possible. No one looked up from the table. They dared not look at him. Except her. She looked. She always looked at him.

He raised an eyebrow. That fucking Thomas.

She raised an eyebrow in return and bit back a smile. I know. Fucking imbecile.


	8. Grief: Her Voice

He had seen her cry, seen tears spill from her eyes down her cheeks. As the years had gone by and their friendship deepened, he wished that he could take his handkerchief and press it to her face, gently wiping away the visible signs of her distress. He wanted to offer her words of comfort as he softly pressed the white square against her cheek, the corner of her nose, her mouth. He wanted to smooth the loose strand of hair behind her ear and offer her a warming embrace, allowing her to cry into his chest until she had no more tears to shed. But instead, he would offer her his handkerchief, guide her to sit at her customary chair in his pantry, and offer a smattering of sympathetic words. Any more might be construed, by others, as inappropriate.

"I haven't any right to be so upset, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes sniffed as she pressed his handkerchief to her nose.

He took in a shaggy breath and stole a long look at her as she stared her lap. His heart broke for her; he had fought back his own tears as well. He thought of the unfairness of all. The possibility that had been denied by her position, denied by her own choosing, yet the reality of it was that she could not deny the feelings that welled inside her.

He took her hand. And she looked up.

"Mrs. Hughes," he began in that calming, placid voice. It was a well deep with emotion: devotion, friendship, concern, empathy. "You have every right to feel the way that you do. Every right."

She shook her head in disbelief for a moment. No, no I haven't she thought. He wasn't mine. "I wanted to be there. At the end. I wanted to sit with him," she explained, her voice hoarse and breaking, like broken glass on stone.

"But you didn't want to ask Beryl to leave Daisy?" he asked, already knowing the answer. She nodded in the affirmative. "I am sorry Mrs. Hughes. I know that you were fond of William and he of you."

He rubbed his hand across hers as he held it. She gifted him a sad smile.

"When Joe Burns proposed to me," she began – she could feel his hand reflexively tighten – "William told me that he didn't know what the house would do without me. That, in part, helped me to make my decision," she said sadness filling her words.

"Go on," Mr. Carson encouraged her.

"I realized then that the thing I thought I was missing," she paused to look directly into Mr. Carson's eyes before she continued "my life at Downton has given me many people that I hold very dear," she said with sincerity hoping that he understood. "what I thought I was missing, I had all the while." Her voice sounded broken, fragile, but her words were strong, sure, and steady.

Mr. Carson tipped his head slightly to the side and offered a small smile. He understood. "I understand Mrs. Hughes. Downton has also enriched my life with people that I hold in high esteem as well and the younger staff, well, sometimes they seem like our children don't they?"

Mrs. Hughes managed a laugh through her sniffles. "That they do. I was fond of William, he was a dear soul. Sweet and kind. And he loved that girl."

"That he did," Mr. Carson agreed. Mrs. Hughes mood was improving and he was glad of it. "Mrs. Hughes, William loved someone else as well," he suggested.

She squinted her eyes just a bit in questioning.

"He loved you Mrs. Hughes."

Tears glistened in her eyes but a smile graced her lips as she thanked him.


	9. Grief: His Voice

He left her there. He told them to carry on. They must, he said. His strong words betraying the reality of his shattered heart. He turned and walked away leaving her to tend them. Left her to comfort poor tender-hearted Daisy who had not long before sat at William's beside and heard him gasp for air. Struggle for every last breath. His will to live stronger than the lungs that betrayed him. It was no surprise that she looked first to Daisy with a knowing glance. Perhaps, only Daisy could feel the same measure of pain she felt. Daisy may not have loved William the same way he loved her, but she cared for him deeply. And Lady Sybil? Daisy helped train her to cook. And the housekeeper? Elsie, if she admitted it, saw William as a surrogate son and thought highly of Lady Sybil. Lady Sybil always seemed interested in her work and in her as a person. Even a housekeeper had her favorites. Yes, Daisy and Mrs. Hughes had lost two people very close to them in a brief amount of time. Elsie wrapped her arms around the girl and patted her back soothingly. Their common loss was palpable.

She did not need to search for him. She knew exactly where he'd gone. Yet she needed to go to him. For him. For her. Making her way down the corridor in a daze, her eyes void of anything but the blackest pools of grief, she needed to find him. She needed to be with him, to touch him, feel close to him. When she had told Mrs. Patmore that everyone must one day die, she hadn't thought that it would be someone so young and vital. She hadn't really thought that it would be her. She had pushed the possibility of death to the corner of her mind; compartmentalized it.

Her mind muddled by grief, she walked past Thomas and Anna only noticing them when Thomas gasped slightly. She spoke to them. Later, she'd not really remember what she said. She remembered needing to find him.

She found him staring into the distance or perhaps aimlessly at the grooves in the stonework of the floor. His great shoulders were not drooped nor sagging, his bearing still regal. His great brows not contorted, nor twisted into symbols of anger or grief. He just stood there.

"Are you all right Mr. Carson?" she asked. Why she asked she didn't know. It was what people asked when a tragedy occurred. Are you all right? Of course he was not all right. She felt stupid for asking such an inane question.

He dared not look at her as she approached his side. Desperately trying to hold himself together, he glanced in her direction. "I've known her all her life you see," he spoke low and quiet, the reality of Lady Sybil's death not brought to bear on him yet. He hadn't answered her question. Of course he would deflect it. Answering it meant that Lady Sybil lay dead upstairs. Young. Cold. Rigid. Dead. Instead he would deflect the conversation away from himself. He would not show how devastated he was. How his heart hung in shattered threads like candy floss in the wind. "I've known her since she was born," he finished. He pressed his lips together tightly into a frown, the cleft in his chin becoming pronounced.

She tucked her hand into the curve of his elbow. She needed to touch him even if it the plushness of his dressing gown was a barrier between them. She could not feel his bare flesh, the smoothness of his arm, the silkiness of the hair there, but she felt his warmth, his solidness.

They shared many things. Confidences. Aspirations. Fears. All except one. She had held her own counsel those months she waited in agony for her diagnosis while he all but begged her to let him share her burden. And she remained silent. She would not tell him then; would never tell him. Probably. She had no right to; he had no right to know. Not yet. Perhaps one day. Today they would grieve together. They had a right to do that. They had shared grief before and now they would again.

He shocked her. She never expected to feel his giant hand ease across hers. She hadn't expected him to reach for her. She reached for him out of need. Her need to feel close to someone. Him. Her need to let him know that she was there. But he did; he reached for her. His hand slid across hers and covered it almost completely. She felt a gentle squeeze.

They stood there for a moment, saying nothing. His silence saying everything. Her silence supporting him. Then, gently his hand slid away from hers and she let her hand drop from his arm. She watched as he made his way to his desk and sat down in his chair. It was then that he looked at her. And she saw it the moment it happened. He broke. He quickly brought a balled fist to his mouth in a vain effort to muffle his cries. Men should not cry, he'd been taught. Women cry. Men support them. Men carry on. Never before had she heard the sound that came from him that night. A high-pitched, strangled, nasally broken wail. Something altogether foreign from his deep, rich, chocolaty baritone. She rushed to him and brought his head to her breast. He placed a hand around her hip to steady himself and she soothingly combed her fingers through his hair. She held him has he released his grief.

She would never remember what drew her attention away from him at that moment but, she looked toward the door to see Anna watching them. In silent understanding, the two women observed each other for a long moment. Woman to woman, theirs was an unspoken understanding.

I love him. He's broken. I must be with him now.

I know. I will attend to the others. Anna dropped her head in respect and gently closed the door.

She didn't count the minutes that she stood there, Charles' head cradled against her breast, her fingers coursing gently through his hair. They spoke no words. Silence hung about the room except for his cries that had now turned into soft whimpers and sniffling.

He pulled back. Her hand slipped from his hair and his from her waist. She stepped back and he looked up at her with a wet face, swollen, reddened eyes, and a sad half smile. A half smile of apology for having possibly embarrassed her with his actions and thanksgiving for her compassion. He hoped that she understood.

She understood. She always did. Words needn't be spoken. Their understanding cut through the silence. It always would.


	10. Merriment: Her Voice

Oh he had heard her laugh. Heard her sing. Heard her festive. But this, this was different. She was positively merry. It was not her birthday. That was months away and so was Christmas. No, this was the afternoon after they had returned from their excursion to Brighton. He noticed her mood that morning seemed lighter, her face wreathed in shy smiles; her eyes seemed to have an extra twinkle. He noticed that his step seemed lighter as well and his morning duties didn't seem so burdensome.

"So, tell me, has he said anything?" Mrs. Patmore inquired with little subtlety as she set the tray with the tea cups and biscuits on the table in Mrs. Butte's sitting room.

"Whatever are you speaking of Mrs. Patmore?" she replied as she continued to look down at the invoices in front of her and trying desperately not to smile.

"You know exactly who and exactly what I am speaking about. Don't play dumb with me Elsie Hughes," the cook smarted. "I saw you two holding hands yesterday." Mrs. Patmore took a seat in a nearby chair and waited on the housekeeper to complete her tallies.

Mrs. Hughes sighed deeply. There would be no getting out of this questioning. The cook hand the persistence of a hound after a hare. She had hoped to savor the moment that Charles Carson accepted her outstretched hand. They had touched before, mostly her touching him. When Lady Sybil died, when he was particularly upset about this or that a calming hand on his or her hand pressed to his chest occasionally to turn and move him out of the room. But, he had accepted her hand. I think I will hold your hand. She extended it and he clasped it. She had felt such joy she thought she would burst. She wanted to savor the warmth of his voice caressing her ears. I think I will hold your hand. The words repeated over and over in her mind. On the train home. As she prepared for bed. Tried to sleep. His deep voice saying what she had only dreamt of. His hand enveloping hers. This simple gesture stitching up his heart while she thought her's would burst of joy. Her man, she thought of him as hers, was a slow mover to be sure; but he was moving, slowly, like the gentle waves that lapped at their feet at the Brighton shore.

"Mrs. Patmore," she began swiveling round to meet the smirking countenance of the cook, "Mr. Carson and I are merely friends."

"Hmphff," the cook protested as she poured the housekeeper a cup of tea and passed it to her. She did not fail to notice the smile in Mrs. Hughes eyes as she sipped from her tea cup. "You held hands for quite some time out there."

About this time Mr. Carson came looking for Mrs. Hughes and was making his way to her sitting room when he heard the two women talking. He turned to leave, allowing them to finish their conversation until he heard his name mentioned. Natural curiosity caused him to pause for a moment and stealthily listen outside the door.

"Mr. Carson felt unsteady in the sand and water," Mrs. Hughes explained casually. "I told him he could hold my hand if he needed to feel steady. That's all."

Mrs. Patmore shook her head in disbelief. "Mrs. Hughes, honestly. Mr. Carson is a strong man. Do you really think that the tide would have swept him out to sea in ankle deep water? I'm not that daft"

A silence fell between the women for a moment and Mr. Carson worried that they might hear him breathing out in the corridor. Then. She giggled. Elsie Hughes giggled. She didn't giggle. Not ever. But he distinctly heard it. The highly pitched, short snorts rolled up from her belly and out of her mouth like those waves that rolled onto Brighton beach. Wave after wave of happiness engulfed her and was so infectious that Mrs. Patmore joined in with her. At first he was shocked and then put out. Were they giggling at his suggestion that he could not steady himself in the sand? That he might really fall over? That the diminutive housekeeper could really hold him up? His ears burned hot that they might be making fun of him.

"Oh, Mrs. Patmore, I must say I was a bit surprised, astonished actually," Mrs. Hughes admitted with unabashed glee in her voice. "I never thought that he would actually do it. Take my hand in public. But he did!" From the corridor, Mr. Carson thought he could hear the smile in her voice.

He tried desperately to control his breathing. Wouldn't do for one of the hall boys, or worse for her, to find him fainted in the corridor. He pressed an ear closer to the door.

"Go on," Mrs. Patmore pushed as she refilled Mrs. Hughes teacup.

"Well," Mrs. Hughes began breathily, "It was nice. I must say. I was touched."

Mrs. Patmore's face dropped. She expected more. Demanded more. "It was nice?! A roast beef on Sunday is nice! You can do better than that, Mrs. Hughes," she pressed.

The housekeeper lowered her voice and Mr. Carson had to strain from the corridor to hear her. He wondered what she might say. Would she tell Mrs. Patmore about his clammy hand? How he was unable to speak for a moment or two while they paddled about? How he had stared at her bare ankles and studied her profile against the setting sun?

"It was very nice Mrs. Patmore. I'll not deny that I enjoyed holding hands and paddling out into the water with Mr. Carson. We are getting on after all. Perhaps one day he will realize that there is more to life than service," she finished quietly.

Oh, god. Had he just heard that? What had she meant? She had told him countless times that he needed to enjoy life more but did this confession to Mrs. Patmore mean the same thing? He felt his ears burn hot again. Not out of embarrassment, but something else he couldn't quite name.


	11. Offering: His Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion to Merriment: Her Voice

"I'm glad for a bit of this," she said happily, as she sipped on the small glass of sherry.

"Ahhh," Mr. Carson sighed as he sunk into his comfortable leather chair. "Indeed Mrs. Hughes. It has been a busy day but, strangely I don't feel too terribly tired." He sipped from his sherry glass and then set it aside. He looked over her carefully wondering how to proceed. "It seems that the staff enjoyed our excursion to the seaside yesterday," he began with some trepidation. They had not discussed their paddle into the sea together or the words they spoke. He had savored her invitation, had thought he had given himself away at his eagerness to accept her hand. He knew that he might have looked grumpy when he told her that she sounded a little risqué, but it was to hide his nerves. He had put the whole sorry business with Grigg behind him and Alice's picture had been removed from the frame and placed back in the box of memories weeks ago. The sands were shifting and he abhorred shifting sands, but he knew that she would steady him; she told him so. And, he thought, perhaps not all shifting sands were unwelcome.

"It seems they did," she replied. He never tired of hearing her clipped 'd's. They added finality, authority to her sentences he said. "It was a fine day for the trip. The scenery was lovely."

"Yes, very lovely," he agreed with a partially raised brow and forward gesture of his head. If Elsie Hughes had not known better, she would have thought that Mr. Carson was not necessarily speaking of the scenic attributes of Brighton. She had long noticed the habit Mr. Carson had of licking his lips before he said something that was….flirtatious. Not that they flirted – not much – but when something could be construed as such, she paid notice. He was staring at her. She decided to test the waters.

"Thankfully the skies were nice and blue, not a cloud," she pushed with a bemused tone.

"Bluest I've ever seen," he replied through moistened lips and with a deep caramel richness encircling each word. Oh, lord, did he know what that deep rumbling voice did to her in the quietness of his pantry or her sitting room. In the servants' hall, his voice was authoritarian, cool, commanding. Upstairs, it was professional, unflappable, and polished. But when it was just them, his voice was quiet, rich, like velvet ribbon caressing her ears. They could argue, he could be biting, and cruel, cold, but that was only when he was frightened, when she pushed, or when he feared the unknown. Now, she heard something different, something alluring, and playful.

"Certainly you've seen blue skies before Mr. Carson," she teased. Though she would deny it to anyone who asked, she derive some degree of satisfaction in their word games.

"Well, sometimes I just don't stop to pay attention to things as much as I should," he replied with his eyes fixed on hers. He reached for his sherry and finished the remains of the glass. He stood and moved to his desk, opening a drawer. "I have something for you," he spoke as he retrieved a rolled paper tied with twine. He smiled as he handed it to her. "A gift of thanks for helping me with our outing."

"What's this? A treasure map, Mr. Carson" Mrs. Hughes joshed as she accepted the rolled paper and fidgeted with the brown twine, loosening the bow. Mr. Carson coughed nervously at her suggestion. He suddenly wondered if his decision to give it to her had been the right one.

Mrs. Hughes pulled the twine free from the paper and laid it gently across her lap as she carefully unfolded the paper. As she rolled it back revealing its secrets, Mr. Carson licked his lips nervously and "Not a pirate map, if that's what you were expecting," he said with a hint of nervous laughter. She did not look up at him but instead ghosted one hand across the page, as if she wanted to touch the paper, but afraid it might disintegrate if she did. He watched her intently, realizing now that his decision had been the wrong one. He should have left well enough alone. She was shocked, perhaps embarrassed. She had not spoken in what seemed to him an eternity. Her eyes moved over the page slowly, taking in every line etched onto the page.

"Mrs. Hughes, I…"

"It's lovely, Mr. Carson," she interrupted as she looked up at him. "When? Who?"

Mr. Carson let out the breath that he had been holding. Thank goodness. She was not offended. Perhaps he had made the right decision after all. He settled back in his chair and began to explain. "Do you remember the young man drawing pictures along the boardwalk yesterday? Well, he came down to the beach for a while and drew sketches of some of the people along shore."

"And he sketched us," Mrs. Hughes added, her eyes happy but shy and quickly averted. She looked back to the drawing in front of her.

"You and Mrs. Patmore were gathering the blankets and such while I was rounding up the younger staff and he approached me. He showed me his work and asked if I wanted to purchase the drawing that he had done of my….my wife and me," he added shyly. She looked up to see him staring at her, at her worried lip, subconsciously drawn between her teeth.

"But you told him…"

"I told him that he did very nice work and that I should be happy to purchase the drawing," he finished with a half-smile. "I didn't think it necessary to correct a man that I shall never see again."

"No, I suppose not," she replied quietly. She gently outlined a portion of the picture before her. "He captured your likeness very well, Mr. Carson." He watched as she smoothed her finger across his portrait. He wondered if she realized what she was doing. How it made him feel. "Your eyes are smiling," she said looking up to find the same expression playing across his face now.

"And yours Mrs. Hughes, yours seemed full of mischief, "he answered, deepening his voice on the last word for effect. "Perhaps you'd had too much sun."

"Perhaps," she laughed. "But I doubt that was it," she purred as she searched his face for the smallest hint of recognition. The artist had captured everything that she knew and everything that she hoped to have helped him realize.

"It's strange, Mrs. Hughes, how others can see things about us that we cannot see about ourselves," he mused quietly, suddenly serious. She dared not interrupt. If there was one thing that Elsie Hughes had learned over the years, was to listen. Sometimes she listened too much she thought. When she had listened to Mr. Bates and Vera. Sometimes not enough. Not listened enough to Anna the night she had a headache; she should have insisted that Anna go home early to rest. The thought would always haunt her. Nevertheless, she had learned when to let Mr. Carson speak, to allow him to complete his thoughts. She knew that she was privileged to be privy to them. Charles Carson did not share his private thoughts with many.

"Well, look at the etching. That young man had no idea who we were, where we were from, anything about us, but as you say he captured us rather well," he began. She saw a wall between them beginning to crumble but was under no illusions that Mr. Carson would make a declaration or leave service tomorrow for her. She had once told a maid that if she could not abide the rules of the life she'd chosen, then service was not for her. Now, she was bound by those same rules. And she would wait, until he decided to change them. Like the tide, he was slowly ebbing toward the shore. "He captured the mischievous side of you that likes to move forward, to progress. Sometimes against my stubbornness. And me, well, I think that he showed that I've come to realize that there is more to life than service."

She sat silent for a moment. She felt the sand shift beneath her feet. But she did not feel unsteady. No. She welcomed the shifting sand because now she knew that he would be there to steady her.


	12. Flustered: Her Voice

"So, you're ready then Mr. Carson?" she asked as she entered his pantry, pulling on her gloves.

"I've been ready, Mrs. Hughes," he replied with a raised eyebrow. The suggestive tone in his voice caused her to slightly tilt her head and shift her eyes to the side in nervous contemplation. Since their day at the Brighton shore, their banter had taken on a lighter tone, even a hint of suggestiveness if she dared name it. Mr. Carson had not made any declarations nor had she. It was still early days, but she definitely felt a shift in their…what was it? What was what they had? A friendship? Yes. A deep friendship? Surely. However, something had changed the moment he took her hand and they walked into the surf together, looking into uncharted waters. She liked to indulge the thought that he felt it as well. And when he looked at her the way he was now, with the expressive brows, the most prominent, outward barometer of his mood, raised in happiness, she almost believed it. His voice low and deep, sensually enunciating the words that might have double meaning. She had waited so very long for him to finally come round, could it be that he was finally, truly ready?

"Before we leave for the village, I would like your opinion on something."

"How can I help?" she asked happily with a dazzling smile for him.

He held up a picture frame. She instantly recognized it as the one that she had gifted him when she hoped to stitch up his heart. She stopped. Her feet felt glued to the floor. What game was he playing?

"I was wondering if you might help me find a suitable place for this on my desk. I feel a little guilty," he confessed. "This cost you a lot and I should have put it out already."

Her eyes narrowed and her lips drew into a narrow line. She felt a sudden urge to turn and leave his pantry and forget their walk into the village. However, she stood her ground, even if shaking. Drawing in a deep breath and then letting it out heavily, "I am sure that wherever you put it will be nice, Mr. Carson," she replied with a flatness that intoned an obvious disgust with his request of her. She barely managed to muster a less than genuine smile to conceal her horror that he was putting a picture of Alice Neal on his desk. Especially now.

He set the picture frame on the corner of his desk and fidgeted with it until he placed it exactly where he wanted it. She focused her attentions elsewhere, desperately trying not to watch him putting Alice's picture on his desk. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. Why had he decided to put her picture on his desk now? Had their paddle in the sea meant nothing to him? Had she done something wrong or misinterpreted his gift of the etching? A wave of confusion and sadness swept across her face. Mr. Carson glanced up from his desk to find her searching around the room for something occupy her attentions; he fought to suppress a smile.

"I think that this might be the right spot," he finally said. "Come see."

"Oh, I'm sure that it is," she replied in clipped syllables with obvious disinterest. She'd not even turned in his direction.

"Come here, Mrs. Hughes," he commanded softly. "See for yourself,"

As angry as she was with him, she found his command strangely exhilarating. The way he almost ordered her to come here. His tone with her was so different from when he ordered maids and footmen about. With them, he was authoritarian, stern, every inch the butler. Now, she detected something different. He was strongly, but gently requesting that she join him. He was not the butler that she heard speaking to her. It was Charles Carson the man. She suddenly felt very warm. He was staring at her. He was waiting. She had been waiting. Feeling unsteady, she made her way over to his desk and looked down.

She blinked her eyes several times in an attempt to take in the site before her. Had she taken the time to pay attention before, she would have noticed the frame turned the opposite orientation. It could not have held Alice's picture any longer.

"Mr. Carson, I….I…" she stammered. Elsie Hughes never stammered. She was never at a loss for words and never found herself in a place when she could not recover from a shock or surprise. She was quick on her feet. It had always been something that he appreciated in her. She never appeared flustered. Except now. Mr. Carson was pleased. He had accomplished something no one else had. He had Elsie Hughes reeling. He moved to stand behind her.

"It's the postcard you pinned to my notice board," he hummed into her ear. She felt his warm breath on her neck. He took delight in the blush he saw rise in her cheeks.

"I….I….Mr. Car…." She was truly at a loss for words. Her mouth suddenly felt dry as if filled with cotton wool. She closed her eyes and tried to regulate her breathing. She could feel the heat emanating from his body so close behind her. The mixture of pomade and cologne filled her senses. She felt both positively glorious and faint at the same time.

"What do you think, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked, his deep voice causing a shiver of electricity to race down her body. His mouth was so close to her ear. Closer than was necessary. Closer than was entirely appropriate. Not close enough.

"It fits nicely, Mr. Carson," she managed breathily.

His hand slipped gently into hers. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes. It does. A perfect fit."


	13. Hurt: His Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entering into Season 5 territory

"Where have you been?" he questioned too harshly as he entered her sitting room directly after her. He closed the door harder than was necessary and locked it; the bolt clicking loudly in the awkward silence that filled the room. He'd had enough interruptions for one day.

She turned to look at him through weary, red-rimmed eyes. Her face drawn and tired, her cheeks tracked with dried tears. She had no will to fight. He had been right and she knew it. She had spent the last two hours replaying their conversation, their argument, in her mind. The indignation and hurt in his voice. The pain and disbelief in his expression. He had stared a hole in the wall over her shoulder, as he was apt to do when he was angry or deflecting a conversation that he no longer wished to carry on. "After our disagreement, I thought it best if I let you be Mr. Carson. I walked down to the lake to think."

"It is after midnight. Did you not consider that I might be worried?" His tone was unduly imperious with a sharp edge that cut her deeply, a far cry from his flirtatious tones earlier that morning. Get away with you. She had melted in that moment. She dissolved in this one. Elsie lowered her eyes. She knew that she deserved his harshness and more. She had angered him. She had worried him. He was true to form. He lashed out when his emotions bubbled to the surface and he did not know how to express them or was afraid of them. When he saw that she refused to rise to his haughty tone, he softened. "You should not be out by yourself at this late hour. Something…could happen," he whispered as his eyes softened.

"I'm sorry. I never meant to worry you." She took in a deep breath. It was usually he that acquiesced, gave in first. However, something had changed; the butler had finally let her in. She realized that she needn't always have the upper hand; she knew that she was wrong. "And I never intended to anger you. To keep things from you."

"I'm no longer angry, Mrs. Hughes. Perhaps, hurt but not angry," he replied softly.

"I tried to explain why I could not say anything, Mr. Carson," she attempted to explain again, her voice raspy and shallow from crying.

"But you did tell Mr. Bates and Lady Mary. Yet you did not feel you could say anything to me," his voice pleading for her to help him make sense of it all. I'm on your side.

"As I said before, there were circumstances," she ground out impatiently.

"Yes. Circumstances. I understand," he replied sincerely. "But then you confronted him." His anger returned. His face turned into a combination of anger, shock, and horror. For a moment, she worried. She worried that what they had established, the long, tentative dance around each other that had blossomed into a private romance, might be compromised. "What if he had…had hurt you?" he whispered.

"I hardly think that he was after the old housekeeper," she barked back with a wry laugh.

He roughly placed his hands on her upper arms holding her still. "Stop it. If he had hurt you, I would have done exactly what Anna feared Mr. Bates might have done. What any man would have done if an animal like that had attacked his…his woman." He never meant to declare his love for her in that manner but there it was. In no uncertain terms. Elsie's mouth flew open and her eyes searched his. Tears began to well in her eyes and he still held her firm. "I mean it Elsie. All of it," he finished with the authoritativeness of a man with rights over the woman that he loved. They had agreed to a secret courtship in the days and weeks following their handholding at the beach, but there had been no declarations until now. It was past time. He dropped his hands from her arms and drew her to him. He cradled her head with his hand as she cried into his chest. "Sssh, my love," he cooed. "You are my girl aren't you?"

"Yes," she replied through happy sniffles. She pulled away from him just enough to look into his eyes; she rewarded his confession with brilliant smile. "Have been for a long time," she finished.

"May I?" he asked huskily seeking permission to seal the newest revelation of their relationship with a kiss. She nodded her assent and as she lifted on her toes, he lowered to meet her. She placed her hands on each side of his face. She had dreamt of cradling his face. Studying the cleft in his chin; learning the story behind the jagged scar that marked him. Tracing the formidable, expressive brows that marked his moods.

His hands dropped to rest on her waist. Through the smooth fabric of her dress felt the rigid firmness of her corset. More and more often, he had lain awake at night thinking of what she looked in her corset, in her shift, in….. He gently brushed his lips against forehead. She let out a sigh and worried her lip. Her breathing increased rapidly as he moved to kiss her temple, gently, reverently. Her hands slipped to his shoulders and then behind to his neck; one coursing through his hair. She thought that she would faint from his attentions. He moved to her ear, his hot breath caressing it as he spoke and her perfume filling his senses.

"Elsie, I have a strong back and broad shoulders. Let me help carry your burdens. Please. You don't have to carry them alone anymore," he plead with broken voice.

"Oh, God, Charles," she replied shaking as he kissed her cheek. He tasted the salt from her tears as he kissed the evidence of her wounds. Just when she thought that he would never claim her mouth, he trailed tiny kisses down her cheek and then she felt it. His lips caressing hers. Soft lips meeting soft lips; eager, wanting, gentle, reverent. Not the searing kiss that invaded her dreams, not those in the privacy of her bedroom at night, nor those that intruded in the light of day, but just as meaningful.

They got very little sleep that night as Elsie unburdened to Charles many of the secrets that she had held over the years. He listened patiently and held her hand as she cried, laughed, and wept again. She explained why she had not told him of her health scare, of the true nature of it. I didn't want you to see me as a sick woman. As a dying woman. As weak. He apologized again for his rude behavior. They cried together a bit over the release of emotion. She told him of Tom and the scare with Edna, the threat she had made to the young woman. Charles stifled a laugh at the fire of his housekeeper. He told her of Lady Mary's indiscretion with Mr. Pamuk. She stifled what she truly wished to say for his sake. She then told him of her suspicions about Lady Edith. She showed him the picture of the baby and spoke of the overheard conversation between the young woman and the farmer. Charles shook his head and they agreed that it would be quite a scandal when the news got out.

When they finally parted for the morning, for it was morning when they finally ascended the stairs for their rooms, Charles and Elsie had reached an understanding. She was his and he was hers. They had rights. He would help carry her burdens and she would allow him.


	14. Blow Up: Their Voices

She had barely spoken at supper or looked in his direction. For his own part, his gaze had been directed toward his stew. He had been afraid to look at her. Afraid of what he might see. When he had refused her request to add the name of the young soldier to the war memorial, she gave up without a fight and walked away. Mrs. Patmore had a snippy retort for him and a few tears. He had expected that. However, her silence on the matter unnerved him. She had only been silent a few other times, the last he remembered was when she had been worried over her health and he had accused her of slacking. He did not think her to be ill. No, quite the contrary. He noticed something different about her. He could not put his finger on it, but there was something different. Pleasingly different. Perhaps he would mention it to her if she would allow him to speak to her.

She did not come to his pantry for sherry and when he left to go find her, he found her sitting room locked and the light off. He sighed heavily. He hated to disappoint her but he would hold steadfast to his convictions. He truly did not believe that the young man's name belonged on the memorial. How could she suggest it? As he moved about the corridors, checking the doors and latches, making sure that the Abbey was secure, he thought of the ways in which things had begun to change. Alfred, once so promising, had left service for the kitchens of the Ritz. Daisy was learning arithmetic and history from that socialist schoolteacher, Miss Bunting. He, himself, had been chosen over His Lordship to chair the memorial committee. Elsie was even changing. Encouraging Daisy to pursue an education, admitting that footmen might not be needed in service in a few short years, and thinking that the King should be made more accessible to the people. He looked around him and the only thing that remained a constant was the Abbey itself. Or so he thought.

The next morning saw no change in her demeanor. She sat next to him at breakfast, uttered a few pleasantries to those around them, and curtly answered the few questions he asked of her. They each went about their duties, each distracted but refusing to allow their emotions to get the better of them especially in front of the family. Finally, with his duties complete upstairs until luncheon he could take her silence no longer. He burst into her sitting room demanding to know what on earth was wrong.

"Nothing," she spat out in that clipped way of hers when she was outdone with him. She spoke into her ledgers not bothering to turn in his direction. He was dejected. Usually when he entered her sitting room, she turned and smiled sweetly. He decided to press her.

"We both know that is not true," he said flatly with accusing eyes and his lips drawn tightly.

"I don't have time for this, Mr. Carson," she replied tartly, swiveling round to stare him down imperiously. "I am quite busy." Her forced, pained smile infuriated him all the more. He did not believe that he was in the wrong. He continued to stare at her with an eyebrow raised in questioning.

"You're still angry about the memorial." She turned away quickly, reaching for an inkbottle to refill her pen. "Do you expect me to give in at your every request even when I disagree with it morally?" he countered icily.

"I was asking on Mrs. Patmore's behalf," she responded as she drew the ink up into the chamber.

"Why didn't she come to me?" he asked quietly. He wondered why Mrs. Patmore had not come to him to ask. Why Elsie had felt it her business to ask if the lad's name could be inscribed on the memorial. What had he done to make Mrs. Patmore fearful of approaching him?

She replaced the cap on the inkbottle and firmly set it back into its nesting place on the wooden well that sat on her desk. The thud with which the bottle met the wood resonated throughout the small room. She swiveled round to look at him, her head tilted slightly to one side, her eyes aflame. Passion, anger, longing. Something willing him to understand. He was not a stupid man. Far from it. She had been so very proud of the way that he convinced the committee to accept Lord Grantham's participation. She took pride in the way that he kept the household running like a finely tuned machine. Could he not see what was right in front of him? Mrs. Patmore's words continued to flitter through her mind since the moment she had said them. Everyone knows that you can twist him round your little finger. Perhaps. On the everyday things. The things concerning the house. Not the things concerned her now. The things she held most dear. She held his gaze for a long, tense moment then looked to the side and worried her lip before looking back at him.

A look of recognition flashed across his face and he set his jaw. He thought a moment before he spoke. "I see. So that's what they think." She noticed a sound of defeat in his voice; his male pride dented. Despite herself, she pressed the issue once more.

"She's our friend. Couldn't you prevail on the committee?" She wished that she could have taken the words back the moment that she had said them. Would he only think that she only worked to manipulate him?

"No," he answered coldly. "Is there anything else Mrs. Hughes."

Both had lost the point of why they were at odds. The war memorial was not the reason for their argument; it was a convenient excuse to alleviate tension. Elsie thought she was making progress since their day at the sea. That he was coming around little by to progress; she knew that it would be difficult but she had offered him her hand. She had hoped that their relationship might have progressed a little faster as well though she knew that she would need to be patient in that as well. Glaciers moved faster than Charles Carson. Elsie felt distressed and discombobulated. Twist him round your little finger? Hmmphf. Everyone, most certainly, was wrong.

They paused a moment. A temporary truce. And then.

"How could you be so very insensitive to Daisy," sarcasm dripping from her voice like venom from a snake's fang.

"Insensitive?" he barked back incredulously, his face reddening.

"Yes, insensitive!" she clipped out as she sprang from her chair. Though she could not meet him eye to eye, in that moment she felt emboldened. A wildfire within her raged. "She only wanted you to give her a bit of encouragement and all you could muster was some ridiculous comment about place and her needing to remember her station in life."

"And what is wrong with that? I don't seem to recall that you were very supportive of Gwen when she was taking a course in secretarial work," he reminded her. She shot a withering glance. Usually her maids cowered at such a look and internally he winced, but he would not let her see it. He stood his ground.

"She wants you to be proud of her."

"I don't see that it matters what I think."

"She admires you. Though with your present attitude, I'm not sure why she cares what you think."

He could not help but notice the heavy rise and fall of her chest as anger and passion washed over her. He watched as her cheeks flushed and eyes sparked, blistering blue flames. It had been some time since they had disagreed so heatedly. He knew that it was wrong to think it in this moment, but he wanted draw her to him, envelope her in his embrace and show her just how much he hated for them to be at odds.

She watched him as his eyes drifted downward. She watched as the anger in his eyes dissipated and a new kind of storm took over. Dark clouds of passion invaded and she knew that it was wrong to think it in that moment, but she wanted him draw her to him, to claim her mouth hungrily, to feel his hands on her body, in her hair. She wanted him to prove to her that he truly hated them at odds. She needed him. Could he not see it? Did he not need her? Twist him round your little finger. Not yet, she thought wistfully. If only I could.

Finally, she calmed. She understood why he was upset. Why he had been opposed to Daisy furthering her education, why he had been short with Mr. Molesley. She extended her hand, placing it on his arm as a peace offering.

"Times change. I did not want to become a farmer's wife like my mother so I chose service. You chose service. That was the alternative available to us. Daisy and those of her generation now have their own choices to make. You cannot fault them for that," she offered gently. She felt the tension leave his body as he took a step toward her.

"I suppose not. But if people no longer wish to enter service or find it a worthwhile profession then all I have devoted my life to has been…irrelevant. I have been irrelevant," he finished sadly.

Elsie traced her finger across the cleft in his chin. "No, Charles. Your job is being the butler but you are more than that." She traced the scar that she wanted to learn the story of. "You are Charles Carson, the man." Her finger gently brushed across his lips. "Perhaps it is time you found him again."


	15. Love: His Voice

The corridor had thankfully quieted as the day's activities had ended and Mr. Carson sent the younger staff to bed. The time that he so coveted with Mrs. Hughes had consistently been interrupted by one member of the staff or another bursting into his pantry or her sitting room with some crisis or another to be dealt with. Or perhaps just to make conversation. However, he was determined to make sure that tonight, they would not be interrupted. He checked the lock on the silver safe and settled the papers on his desk before turning the switch on his desk lamp. With the room, enveloped in darkness, he tugged on his waistcoat and straightened his tie. He closed the door behind him and strode confidently toward the housekeeper's sitting room. He hummed a little tune to himself as walked. "…she stole my heart away…"

"I see that there are only two glasses out tonight," Mr. Carson mentioned gleefully gesturing to the sherry glasses as he took the seat nearest the housekeeper who occupied the swivel chair at her desk.

"I put the others away behind lock and key. It has been ages since we have been able to enjoy a little sherry without a guest. Perhaps they might take the hint," Mrs. Hughes purred in the most becoming Scottish lilt she could intone. She knew what the rolling 'r' and the richness of her brogue did to him. He had begun to tell her so during their more intimate moments. They had begun the scavenger hunt to find Charles Carson the man, since she had suggested that he was more than a butler some weeks ago. Though the search was still chaste, they had stolen a few kisses when they could and he had whispered a sweet nothing or two in her ear while investigating the particular slopes and lines of her neck. The times that they had managed to secret themselves away though had been too few and too far between. Earlier that morning as they met in his pantry to discuss the schedule of the day, she told him that it seemed as if some vengeful god were toying with them. Pulling them by marionette strings, throwing others in their paths deliberately causing them interruption for some secret and malicious delight. She was determined to put a stop to it.

"You make that sound a little risqué, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson answered with a crooked smile and a raised eyebrow as he handed her a glass of their favorite sherry. He made sure that their fingers brushed and his forefinger caressed hers as she took the glass from him.

"And if I did?" she asked matching his smile with one of her own.

"We deserve to live a little," he replied mischievously in low and velvety tones that made Mrs. Hughes suddenly feel very warm all over. She felt the sudden urge to check her hair in the looking glass but instead held his gaze for a moment. Her eyes wondered from eyes to ears. She had come to find his ears quite interesting over the past week. She found that she could make the stern faced butler breathe heavy and sigh in pleasure with a nip in just the right place on his earlobe. She could feel her face begin to redden and she closed her eyes, willing herself in vain to think of something, anything else.

"Did you hear that Lord Merton proposed to Mrs. Crawley?" she asked, taking sip of sherry.

"I did. But she is thinking about it. The Dowager seems to think that she will turn him down, but I am not sure. He probably wants a companion and perhaps she does as well," he replied flatly.

"Hmmm….I understand that he told her he loves her. A declaration of romantic love might change things don't you think?" Mr. Carson had yet to tell her that he loved her. He had all but said it, but not actually said the words. He had shown her. Oh, how he had shown her, in his strict and proper way. Some kisses and cuddling but she longed to hear him say it. Charles had made such progress. He proved that he was no stranger to romance and she had begun to think of retirement. That Miss Baxter might be the one to replace her rather than Anna. She had groomed Anna, but more and more Anna seemed more devoted her role as lady's maid and Miss Baxter seemed more attuned to the role of housekeeper. She could keep a secret. Could be counted on to be discreet. Perhaps it was time to consider retirement in earnest. Would Charles consider it as well?

"Perhaps," he replied coyly, pretending not to catch her meaning.

"They say autumn love is the best kind of love," she pushed. She was beginning to get a bit annoyed. Was it too much for him just to say it?

"Do you agree?" he asked. He found himself amused at her annoyance. Was she so very desperate to hear him tell her that he loved her?

"Do you?" she shot back, downing another large sip of her sherry.

"I have a question for you, Mrs. Hughes," he began as he took her empty glass and set it down on the silver tray.

"Yes Mr. Carson," she whispered. She felt her heart begin to race and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. Perhaps he was about to become her other way. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. He reached for her chair and pulled her closer to him. He took her hands in his and she felt she took in a deep breath. This must be the moment, she thought. She felt like a young girl. She had been flattered when Joe had proposed but this was different. She had the butterflies that she had heard her maids speak so giddily of. His hands were so warm. They encased her hands completely which was fortunate because on their own, she feared her hands would shake.

"Mrs. Hughes, there is a dance in the village Saturday night. I was wondering if you might like to go," he said carefully, measured, sincerely.

Elsie closed her eyes, sighed deeply, and attempted to remove her hands from his but he held them firm. "I suppose to chaperone the staff?" she ground out, opening her eyes.

"No, not exactly. I thought it might just be you and me. If you are agreeable that is?" he asked hopefully.

"I think that is agreeable Mr. Carson. But do you think that we will bring scandal upon the house if the butler and housekeeper are seen out together at a dance?" she challenged with a hint of sarcasm.

"Mrs. Hughes, are you not the one always telling me that times are changing?" he retorted, pulling her even closer.

"Yes, but….what if people talk?"

"I dare say that we have the personalities to overcome it," he reminded her of her own words. He leaned in to kiss her. Her lips soft, warm, and inviting. He tasted the smooth cream of her lipstick. Something that she had just taken to wearing recently and he enjoyed the way it drew his eyes instantly there, to the place that he had so longed to caress with his own lips. The place, once unlocked, had become the gateway to greater intimacy with this woman he knew so well. As they kissed for a long moment, he felt her hands around his neck, fingers combing through the hair there. His hands on her hips, he dreamed of what one day would be. One day never having to part from her at night.

"Charles," she whispered against his lips. "I think we had better say goodnight," she said breathlessly with more than a hint of sadness and regret. Elsie Hughes wanted nothing more than to stay right where they were but she knew better.

Charles gave her one last peck and made to get up. He walked to the door, placing his hand on the knob. He opened the door and paused. Turning around, he smiled at her. "And Mrs. Hughes, one more thing," he began sincerely. "In case I haven't mentioned it, I do love you. Very much." Without giving her time to respond, he strode out the door and into the corridor.


	16. Love: Her Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Village Dance or Walking Out

"It has been a few years since a gentleman has given me flowers," she said as her cheeks blushed prettily. "They're lovely." She accepted the bouquet of wildflowers that Mr. Carson had handpicked for her. "Wait here while I fill a vase with water."

While Mrs. Hughes made her way to the kitchen, Mr. Carson nervously fidgeted with his hat and surveyed her sitting room. This room he had been in more times that he could ever count, suddenly revealed new things to him in those moments. He studied the pictures of her family members scattered throughout; the one of her and her sister as girls – she had a mischievous gleam even then, he thought to himself. The photograph of her mother, he had seen it dozens of times, but he realized just how very much she looked like her mother – so very lovely. He gazed round the room taking in the plants that she so lovingly tended, the lace that hung from the table where they shared their small sherry, even the room smelled of her perfume. He was thunderstruck. This was a picture of domesticity. This was the housekeeper's room, but this was the room of Elsie Hughes, the woman. A sampling of the way he could have with her. One day, he told himself. Soon.

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes made their way into the village and came upon the village people gathering on the green for the dance. Mrs. Hughes found a table while Mr. Carson went in search of refreshments. Elsie Hughes was thrilled to be out of the house for a change and she was even more thrilled to be at the village dance with Mr. Carson. She worried, for his sake, that people might talk. Might suggest it unseemly for the butler and the housekeeper to be out dancing together. Ultimately, she rested assured in the confidence that their reputations for propriety would quell any such gossip.

"Good evening Mrs. Hughes. It's very nice to see you out tonight," Mr. Danvers said offering a friendly smile to the housekeeper. The greengrocer always made a point to speak to the housekeeper when she made a visit to the village or while she stood in the churchyard speaking to friends. He was an average fellow but a kind man with sparkling green eyes and a nice smile.

"And it's very nice to see you too, Mr. Danvers," Mrs. Hughes replied kindly. "I trust that you're well?" The housekeeper and the grocer chatted amiably for a few moments and Mr. Carson paid their conversation little attention. He was content enough to have Mrs. Hughes by his side. Their walk to the village had been a pleasant one, her hand tucked comfortably in his elbow. The summer breeze just right and the noises of the night an appealing accompaniment to their gentle conversation. Only did his attention arouse when he heard the grocer ask Mrs. Hughes to take a turn about the dance floor.

"Would you care to dance?" Mr. Danvers asked innocently. After all, he and Mrs. Hughes had danced before many years ago at another village dance. It had all been very innocent; a group dance, certainly nothing untoward. Most of the staff had gone to the dance including Mrs. Patmore and as usual, Mr. Carson had decided to remain home. Yet when Mr. Carson heard Mr. Danvers inquiry, he turned and looked sharply at the grocer. Though their relationship was a secret to all, he was angry that the man dared to ask Mrs. Hughes, his Mrs. Hughes, to dance. He had hoped to frighten the man off with his glare but Mr. Danvers did not look in his direction instead only focusing on the housekeeper.

Mrs. Hughes smiled kindly and responded with a polite refusal. "Thank you for asking but I am afraid that my dance card is full Mr. Danvers," she said with a small chuckle. She felt the small pressure of Mr. Carson's knee press against hers under the table. From the corner of her eye, she could see a look of smug satisfaction replace the look of possessive territorialism from a moment earlier. She fought the urge to roll her eyes as she saw his chest puff out a little like a proud peacock fanning his feathers. Men.

After Mr. Danvers politely took his leave, Mrs. Hughes turned to Mr. Carson and simply shook her head in amusement. Ridiculous man. Did he really think that she would accept an invitation to dance with another man when all she longed for was Mr. Carson's arms around her leading her?

A few moments later several of their friends from the village approached and a few sat down with them, making small talk about this or that. Some of their conversations were shared ones while others were not. It was no matter until the postmistress, Mrs. Wigan approached with Mr. Carson in her crosshairs. Mrs. Hughes could almost feel Mr. Carson's posture stiffen as he saw the haughty woman approach. He had told her of the woman's presumptuousness and rudeness toward Lord Grantham, though she was in no way as rude as that socialist schoolteacher who was indoctrinating Daisy. Mrs. Hughes knew the postmistress made Mr. Carson miserable during the planning meetings for the memorial. Every suggestion he made, she questioned. Thankfully, there were enough votes that the committee could override her suggestions.

"Good evening, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Wigan called loudly over the tops of the others. Mr. Carson gritted his teeth when he heard her voice.

"Good evening, Mrs. Wigan," Mr. Carson said with a tip of his head and an overly harsh and short tone that he usually reserved for Molesley or Thomas.

"Fancy seeing you at a village dance," she questioned more than stated. "Are you chaperoning the youngsters?" She began to look round. "I don't see any of them." Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes and huffed a bit.

"Well, I…" Charles stammered. Why did this woman seem to delight in aggravating him so? It was none of her business why he was there. Mrs. Hughes sensed Mr. Carson's distress and gently pressed her knee against his before turning her gaze to the postmistress.

"Mrs. Wigan," she began sweetly and with a smile. "Mr. Carson agreed to accompany me to the dance tonight. I do love music, you see." There, that should be an end to it.

A knowing look passed across the postmistress' face. "Ah, well. So you are walking out then?" she asked triumphantly. Mrs. Wigan was one for a bit of gossip. Mrs. Hughes was not (outside the house).

Mrs. Hughes mustered her most steely housekeeper glare and bit the inside of her lip in an effort to contain her temper. It would not do for her to give Mrs. Wigan the satisfaction of riling her.

"We are not. (she lied) But if we were? Would it be of any concern to you?" Elsie heard the words roll off her tongue sharply, her brogue thick. Her brogue always thickened when angry or upset. She chastised herself. Charles must be mortified. She saw him out of the corner of her eye. She expected a look of mortification, but instead she saw a look of bemusement. The half-smile she so enjoyed.

Mrs. Wigan's face dropped. She had heard of the housekeeper's exacting standards and fierce temper. "I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson, I truly apologize. I really didn't mean a thing. Really," the postmistress apologized profusely.

"Well, now that that is settled, I am sure that you will enjoy your night," Mrs. Hughes replied gently. The postmistress took her leave and the conversation at the table resumed. Mr. Carson marveled at how this woman beside him, this woman he was not walking out with, could skillfully handle any situation.

xxx

Mr. Carson returned to their table and extended his hand to the housekeeper. When she looked up to him, he took in a ragged breath. She had looked up at him countless times over the years but this night, in the soft glow of the lamp light, her skin glowed warmly and her eyes beckoned him.

"Would you do me the honor, Elsie?" The way that he said her name, his tongue sliding over the 's' elongating the sound longer than necessary, drove her to near distraction.

"I thought that you would never ask," she purred as she placed her hand in his waiting one.

Expertly, Charles led Elsie onto the dance floor and encircled her into his embrace. He had never been prouder to be with her. He knew that he had to make it right. One day, he told himself. Soon. Then he could hold her hand whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted, no matter who saw them. One day, he told himself. Soon. As the band strummed the first chords, Charles noticed a strange look pass across the housekeeper's face. He could not tell if she was confused or delighted. She turned her eyes away for a moment. He once said that he didn't understand her but that had been in disagreement. Here, for a moment, he felt his chest tighten in panic. He was unsure if he had done something to upset her or to embarrass her. Perhaps he shouldn't have made the request of the bandleader. Perhaps everyone would look at them. Would gossip. It was done now; there was nothing for it. He would have to let her decide. As the singer began, Elsie turned and lifted her eyes, meeting his. He knew in that moment that all was well. As he held her close, but within the bounds of propriety, he sang the words of the song to her as they moved in perfect synchronicity to the music.

"Oh, my love is like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in June. Oh, my love is like a melody  
that's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I.  
And I will love thee still, my dear, till all the seas gang dry."

She closed her eyes as if the gesture would preserve the moment like a pressed flower between the pages of a book. She felt his rich baritone invade her every sense. She could feel it rumble through is chest and almost into hers. His breath in her hair, the words written by another man for another woman in another time, but sung by him for her tonight. She loved this man. This bear of a man who could be so inflexible, so rigid. But with her, he could be so kind, loving, and gentle. They had to make it right. One day, she told herself. Soon.

After a few dances and enjoying several glasses of Mrs. Smitherson's punch, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes decided to take their leave and make their way home. Once they were out of sight of the village Mrs. Hughes slipped her hand into the crook of Mr. Carson's elbow. They walked closely together up the gravel drive to the house, coming to the servant's entrance. Mrs. Hughes slipped her hand from Mr. Carson and turned to face him. She was desperate to continue the evening, for them to have every evening together, but she had not the right. Not yet. One day, she told herself. Soon. Twist him round your little finger. The words flittered through her mind again. She took a step closer to Mr. Carson who had removed his hat and held it to one side.

He wanted to kiss her. Every part of her. Explore every facet of her from her fingertips to her toes. The way she moved, the way they moved together while dancing, proved to him that it (they) would be everything he dreamed about in his room late at night when sleep claimed him. He deeply loved this woman who had been by his side and on his side longer than anyone in his adult life. He loved her and he wanted her. He wanted her to be his wife. One day, he told himself. Soon.

Mrs. Hughes knew that she had to push him a little. If she led, he would follow. "You know, Charles, when a lad came calling my mother would pin a fresh posy to my dress. And then she told me that if a petal was out of place on that posy when we returned after a village dance or from an outing that I would see the wrong end of my da's razor strop."

"Thank goodness that we are well past the age for posies pinned to dresses," Mr. Carson said huskily as he stepped a bit closer to Mrs. Hughes. She raised up and he bent down a little so that his lips could meet hers.

"And even if we weren't, my mother, God rest her, isn't here to notice," Mrs. Hughes whispered, her lips almost, but not quite touching his. It was taking all of her self-restraint not kiss his waiting lips.

"When you talk like that," Mr. Carson sighed deeply. He swallowed hard and tried to move so that his lips finally met hers but she moved ever so slightly away from him. She is tormenting me, he thought to himself.

"Your hair is quite tidy, Charles. You don't need the looking glass," she teased, her hot breath caressing his lips, their heads tilted at the ready to claim each other's mouths.

"Mmmm. No," he murmured.

"What is it that you need?" she purred seductively. Twist him round your little finger. Do you want to become Mrs. Carson or not?

"Elsie…" he growled in frustration in not being able to touch her.

They were so very close, yet they were not touching. "Mr. Carson. Is there something that you are longing for?" Charles could only grunt in response. She moved so that he could feel her smile upon his lips. He closed his eyes. It was such exquisite torment. "Just so that you know. (kiss; she finally kissed him) In case you needed confirmation. (kiss) In case you were longing for something. (kiss) I love you too. Very much." Charles leaned in. Elsie Hughes declaration of love had come days after his own and he wanted to take her in his arms. But when he opened his eyes, much to his dismay he saw the retreating figure of Elsie Hughes pushing through to the servant's hall. As she opened the door, she looked back over her shoulder for a moment and smiled. "Pleasant dreams Mr. Carson." Twist him round your little finger.


	17. Realization: His Voice

As the family gathered in the drawing room, Lord Merton and Mrs. Crawley made polite conversation with the Dowager who seemed rather tightly wound. She had expected Mrs. Crawley to tell her of her decision regarding Lord Merton's marriage proposal but Isobel had refused more than once to bend to her cousin's less than gentle demands. Lord Merton seemed happy enough and Mrs. Crawley was wreathed in smiles, Violet smarted to herself. Isobel had accepted Lord Merton and it galled her that she had not told her first. Edith sat curled into herself in a chair in the corner of the room, with a sad and distant look etched on her face. She mulled over the advice of her grandmother and her aunt but could never consider sending Marigold away from her again. Yet the agony of her nearness was almost more than she could bear. The room seemed to buzz around her with people consumed with their own silly thoughts of politics, home building, or which suitor to reject.

Mr. Carson busied himself about the room attending to the needs of the various family members. He collected glasses, refilled glasses, caught snippets of conversation that he might report to Mrs. Hughes later over a glass of sherry. He listened to the awful silence between Lord and Lady Grantham. I hope that their disagreement will end soon, he thought. Like Mrs. Hughes, he hated an atmosphere.

"Carson, have you changed your aftershave?" the Dowager inquired as she took her glass from the silver tray that Mr. Carson held down beside her.

"No, my lady," he answered truthfully, with eyebrows raised at such a question. Carson was a creature of habit; everyone knew that. He had worn the same aftershave for at least twenty years. Mrs. Hughes had gifted him a bottle last Christmas; he treasured it.

"Well, perhaps you arranged the flowers today?" she pressed further, her blue eyes twinkling.

"No, my lady. I believe Mrs. Hughes arranged those," Mr. Carson answered politely but he was becoming increasingly alarmed at the Dowager's questioning. Was she going mad?

"Ah," the Dowager clipped dismissively as Mrs. Crawley took a seat next to her. Quickly, her attention turned to her cousin and away from Mr. Carson for which he was thankful. Lady Mary made to join her grandmother and mother-in-law, taking a seat beside them. Safety in numbers they say, he thought to himself.

"Carson, are politics hotly discussed downstairs?"

"Sometimes, Mrs. Crawley. Although, I do not like to let that kind of talk get out of hand," Mr. Carson replied in his most imperious and commanding butler tone, his chest puffed out just a little.

"But you and Mrs. Hughes don't always see eye to eye, do you?" Lady Mary inquired with that cold voice she had most of the time. The one that he knew hid the feelings that really lay beneath the composed façade.

"No, my lady, not always," he replied. He wondered why they were suddenly interested in his aftershave or whether or not he and Mrs. Hughes disagreed on politics. If they were concerned about the running of the house, they need not be. He would have to set this to rights.

"Well, do your disagreements erupt into arguments the way they do around our dinner table?" Lady Mary questioned further.

"Mrs. Hughes and I strive to remain an example to the younger staff so if we do strongly disagree we do so in private," he remarked with the surety of a father who wished to shield children from the disagreements of their parents.

"Hmmm…many things are better left to be done in private," Lady Mary intoned imperiously with a cheeky smile to match. She caught her grandmother's eye and the two women shared a knowing look. Mary decided to push Carson one step further as he collected her wine glass.

"Carson," she whispered, looking up at his collar, "did you cut yourself shaving?"

Mr. Carson looked suitably confused and then mortified. "Why do you ask?" he snapped before composing himself and offering a more appropriate response. "No, my lady" he drew out "I do not believe so."

Lady Mary leaned in a bit, a broad smile spreading across her face. "It's just that I thought that I saw bloo….no, that is lip rouge on your collar, Carson," Lady Mary nearly giggled with the glee of a girl. For years, she knew that the housekeeper and the butler were friends, perhaps a bit more than friends, and now she had her confirmation. She was sure that Lady Sybil was looking down on them smiling.

"Carson, would I be wrong in assuming that the botanical smell on your clothing and the lip rouge on your collar belong to a certain housekeeper?" she asked with unadulterated joy. This question aroused the attention of the Dowager who loved nothing more than a bit of gossip, though she never admitted to such a thing.

Mr. Carson's mouth fell open but the Dowager held up her hand to stop him from answering. "Carson, what are your intentions toward Mrs. Hughes? I don't believe that you would carry on with her if you did not have some intention."

Mightily uncomfortable with the topic of this discussion, Mr. Carson thought of what advice his housekeeper might give him. "I wish to marry her, my lady," Mr. Carson said firmly. Mrs. Crawley and Lady Mary were immeasurably happy. Mrs. Crawley felt the urge to rush downstairs to pay a visit to the housekeeper; they each had good news to share.

"Have you asked her?

"No, my lady?"

"Why not. Surely she is agreeable." Mr. Carson looked at his shoes and then at Lady Mary. Even the Dowager knew of his fondness for the girl and her for him. "I see. You are torn between your devotion to the house, to the family, and your devotion to Mrs. Hughes. Carson, how long have you been at Downton?"

"Over forty years, my lady," he answered proudly as his eyes met hers.

"A life in service is a long business Carson and you have devoted most of yours to this house and this family. There was a time when I thought that I would reign over Downton until I died. But that was not to be. There was a Countess of Grantham before me and now there is another, and an American one at that." The Dowager cast a look over to her daughter-in-law, who thankfully was speaking, at last, with her husband. Mrs. Crawley thought that Violet was softening; she saw a small smile curl at her lips. "And there will be others long after I am gone. Downton was here before you or I arrived. It will be here after each of is gone. If you love Mrs. Hughes, give her the life you have left. Devote yourself to her."

"Hear, hear," Mrs. Crawley cheered, which elicited a roll of the eyes and a shake of the head from the Dowager.

"Carson," Mary began, "if you would perhaps like to change your collar and take the rest of the evening, Barrow can handle things, I'm sure. Rest assured. We will keep your secret."

Mr. Carson hurried downstairs and charged toward the housekeeper's sitting room only to find it empty and its occupant nowhere to be found. He looked in his pantry to find it empty as well. He searched the servant's hall, several of the places that he thought that she might be and still she was nowhere. Finally, he made his way to the kitchen, ragged and out of breath he sounded harsher than he meant to.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"I don't know. She said something about sorting the linens," Mrs. Patmore replied, stunned somewhat by Mr. Carson's demeanor.

"What's gotten into him?" Daisy asked. Mrs. Patmore shrugged her shoulders and returned to garnishing the dish in front of her.

When he found her, she was standing on a short stool sorting linens. He watched her for a moment, her skirt swaying, her strong shoulders moving rhythmically in fluid motions so practiced over the years. The muscles of her neck taut, beads of perspiration glistening, tendrils of hair sprung loose. In one swift step, he moved toward her and grasped her wrist, turning her to him.

She startled. He pushed the cupboard door closed with his foot.

He roughly pressed her against the stacks of linens and claimed her in a blistering kiss. They had experienced many passionate moments but she sensed something different in him. Something hungry and primal, demanding. His hands roamed her body touching every bit of skin that was visible but it was not enough. It would not be enough ever again. She felt heady, electricity coursing throughout parts of her body long neglected if not forgotten. She ached for him to touch her, gently, roughly, completely. Her hands clutched his lapels pulling him into her as his hands stroked her thighs and hips. She could feel his need for her. This was exactly was she warned her maids against. No matter now. When they finally broke, she was lost for words, her breath heavy, her lips swollen and her eyes searching.

"I'll speak to Reverend Travis tomorrow and the banns can be read Sunday. We can be married in three weeks." The words rolled off Mr. Carson's tongue like the rolling tide that day at Brighton. A smile curled at Mrs. Hughes lips.

"Charles Carson! If that is a proposal of marriage, then…" She watched as Mr. Carson's face registered simultaneous looks of shock and mortification. He realized that he had not properly proposed to her. He made to apologize, stuttering and stammering. Poor man, she thought. I should put him out of his misery. "If that is a proposal Mr. Carson, then perhaps, I should say 'yes'."


	18. Mrs. Carson: Her Voice

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes married in the village church on a clear, crisp October Saturday. The last of the leaves were falling and the breeze beginning to pick up briskly. How appropriate, she thought to herself. An autumn marriage for an autumn romance. She had no regrets and doubted he did either. They were happy with their lot. The choices that they had made. She might have been happy married, not to Joe, not as a farm wife. She told the truth that day, she had changed. Both she and Charles were kindred spirits. Ambitious, hardworking, single-minded to a degree. That they had not married earlier was as it should have been. Neither was ready to stop working, nor if they were, neither could pinpoint when they realized they loved the other. And neither would marry for convenience; they had promised themselves that much.

She was proud that their marriage was built on friendship and respect. She looked at so many marriages built on alliances on conveniences. Lord and Lady Gratham had grown to love one another but word had leaked out that the Dowager had been unhappy in her marriage only to find her great love at a most inconvenient time. To marry for love, she thought, perhaps it was a privilege of the working class.

A simple wedding. Traditional vows. She did promise to obey him, though neither believed that she actually would. He didn't mind. A wedding breakfast with family in the servants' hall. Lady Mary, with a kiss for the bridegroom, and Mr. Branson, with a kiss for the bride, made appearances. It was the last day that Charles and Elsie Carson reigned over Downton's downstairs. Tomorrow, things would return to normal. Miss Baxter would clip the keys to her belt, inspect rooms, write rotas, and confer with Mr. Barrow and things would return to normal. Just as Mr. Carson expected them to.

As they approached their cozy little cottage, Elsie suddenly realized that it was just them now. Him and her. Their cottage. Their kitchen. Their parlour. Their bedroom. Their bedroom. A flush of heat and anticipation overtook her. She had not expected to find passionate love at her age. Perhaps companionship and marriage with Charles. She loved him; had for some time. However, this passionate development between them had been a happy and unexpected gift. She welcomed it but with some apprehension. Clever banter, gentle teasing, tender embraces, and fervent kisses were one thing; what would happen the moment they crossed over the threshold into their cottage would be transforming, something with which she had no experience.

As the cottage came into sight his grip on her hand tightened, a million thoughts flittered through Charles' mind. From this moment forward, their lives would center in this place. This cottage, their cottage. The cottage they purchased that suited them nicely, with just enough room for two, with a fine garden, and a large front window. And indoor plumbing, he chuckled to himself, remembering the outdoor privy at Mrs. Patmore's cottage. Elsie made him inexplicably happy but he realized that they were about to enter uncharted waters. He wanted nothing more than to explore them with her.

They were a bit unsure of themselves upon entering the cottage for the first time as a married couple. They removed coats, hats, and gloves. Put them away in all the proper places. Then they stood there, staring at one another, uncomfortably. A question hanging thickly in the air around them. What to do now? Charles knew what he wanted to do but that would be ungentlemanly. To whisk her off to the bedroom immediately? He could never treat her as less than a lady. She knew what she wanted. For him to sweep her off her feet, carry her to bed in a flourish of theatrics and worship her. But they were too old for that, she chided herself. So?

"Why don't you take a warm bath, while I start a fire and we can see what Mrs. Patmore packed in the hamper for us?" he offered sensibly.

She sighed in relief. For once, she was thankful for his cautiousness. She placed a kiss to his lips. "That sounds lovely. Thank you."

Elsie returned from her bath to find her husband, her husband, standing in front of the fire. From the outskirts of the room, she watched him for a moment; he seemingly lost in thought. With his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his dressing gown, he gazed down into burning embers. The firelight flickered, shadows dancing across his face, light chasing them away again. The angle of his nose, his prominent eyebrows, and his hair combed neatly, all caught by the firelight. Carson the butler replaced by Charles the man; her man. As she watched, she noticed the corners of his eyes begin to crinkle and a small smile tug at his lips. He released one of his hands from his pockets to run it through his hair, bringing it to rest on back of his neck. She worried for a moment unsure of what the gesture meant. Then she saw him shake his head slightly and the small smile spread into a beaming one.

He turned slightly catching her in his sight. His mouth gaped slightly open, and she heard the audible, ragged intake of breath as he turned fully toward her. She was a vision in her nightgown, a flowing silk chemise in a muted golden yellow that tied at each shoulder. It must be new, for their wedding night, he reasoned. He had heard somewhere that women did that sort of thing. Scanning her whole body, he made a study of her corsetless form. The milky firelight enveloped the outline of her figure and for the first time he saw her. Soft curves, full hip, tender thigh. No longer confined by laces and stays, she was presenting herself to him. A bride to her bridegroom. For a long moment, the room was silent except for the crackling and popping of the fire.

"Cat got your tongue, Charles?" she asked teasingly, her brogue unintentionally thickened with anxiety. She had never been so bare before him.

"Ahem, no, Mrs. Hugh...um, Elsie," he stammered, fidgeting with the buttons of his pajama shirt. He brought his hand to his waistcoat, then realizing it was not there, he clenched his fingers together nervously and stretched them out wide. After a moment, he found his footing and made his way to her. Tracing a finger along the tie at her shoulder and then down the soft fabric of her gown, he quietly, almost shyly asked, "Is this new?"

"Yes," she whispered, barely audible.

"It is very lovely," he rumbled deeply as he leaned in to kiss her. His lips pressed against the pulse point on her neck, Elsie closed her eyes and drew her bottom lip between her teeth. She was a bundles of nerves and this man, this man, her husband made her feel things that she thought were lost to her at this age. Things she thought she would never have. In this moment as she stood in their sitting room, dressed in her new nightgown that she had chosen especially for her wedding night (for him), the reality of it all came crashing down on her. As Charles moved his attentions from her neck to her shoulders and then her lips, he pulled her close into him. She gave into every urge and impulse that coursed throughout her mind and body. They kissed and caressed, one of Charles' hands coming to rest between her shoulders and the other caressing her thigh and bottom.

As Elsie wound her fingers through Charles' hair, she caught sight of her wedding ring glistening in the firelight. She had convinced herself years earlier that her career was enough and it was. She had convinced herself that her friendship with Charles was enough and it was. It would have been, if nothing further had happened after their lovely day at the sea. The sight of Charles' ring on her finger, the visible symbol of his love and devotion, was her undoing.

"Elsie, you're shaking," Charles' velvety baritone enveloped her warmly.

"Happiness, Charles. That is all," she confided.

"Mrs. Patmore packed a hamper and Mr. Bates made sure to bring our sherry," he replied. She smiled. "Perhaps a bite to eat and a nightcap before we, um, turn in?" Thankful for the chance to calm her nerves, Elsie pressed a soft kiss to Charles' lips before making her way to the kitchen to gather their things.

Elsie arranged napkins, plates, and glasses on a table in front of their sofa while Charles unpacked the hamper that Mrs. Patmore had left them. The couple laughed as Charles continued to retrieve items out of what seemed like a bottomless pit. Elsie remarked that it seemed Mrs. Patmore thought she was preparing for a small army. As Charles lifted the last of the items from the basket, he found a small note.

He opened the note and silently read it. Elsie noticed his face turn an alarming shade of red. She begged him to read it. He refused, instead passing the note to her. "Since you'll likely not be leaving the cottage for a day or two, we've packed plenty of food to sustain you. Enjoy yourselves, Beryl." Though Charles was suitably mortified, Elsie could not help but to laugh. The cheek of the cook, she mused to herself.

For the next hour Charles and Elsie sat on their sofa, he with his legs outstretched and feet propped on an old ottoman; she tucked securely by side. They nibbled on sandwiches, a treacle tart or two, and assorted goodies that the cook so thoughtfully prepared for them. They enjoyed their sherry and light conversation; discussing the wedding, speculating on whether Daisy might go to the farm, or if Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter might ever find romance. They felt easy with one another again, they were on familiar ground.

After some time passed, man and wife set aside their sherry glasses and snuggled together. Charles had removed his dressing gown, Elsie having carefully folded and draped it across an armchair. As they sat with only firelight illuminating the room, Charles wrapped his arm around his wife and placed loving kisses into her hair.

"Elsie?" She could feel his voice pulsate through her body, a prelude of things to come; she had read Marie Stopes little tome on marriage. She knew the moment was coming when he would suggest that they retire to their room. That he would want to undress her (she desperately wanted to undress him; finally to take in the broad expanse of chest, the graying hair there). That he would lovingly loosen each tie that held her nightgown in place, or perhaps ghost a smooth palm under its hem and up her thigh. That he would lay her across their bed and…

"Elsie?" he questioned again, this time his voice a low growl, his breath hot in her ear. Her own name swirling there, the question palpable hanging between them.

"Yes. Charles." She fought to keep her voice steady, calm, reassuring him that he was what she wanted.


	19. Adoration: Their Voices

As he stood watching, she began to turn the duvet down, folding it neatly, crisply, her years as a housekeeper instilling a reverence for all things. She briskly smoothed her hands across the sheet, purging from it imaginary wrinkles. She plumped the pillows and arranged them neatly. One for Charles, two for herself. A luxury she afforded herself now that she lived in her own house. She checked to make sure the sheet corners were squared and tucked tightly. She knew they were; she'd made the bed herself the morning before. She was stalling. What on earth has gotten into you? she asked herself. He's your husband. You love him. He wants this and so do you. It is a natural part of marriage. When satisfied that the sheets were sufficiently smoothed and when she could stall no longer, she straightened and made her way around to the other side of the bed. As he stood rooted to the floor, she nervously attempted to make her way past him. She sighed heavily and he reached to grasp her wrist.

"Elsie," he whispered quietly, her back to him. He slowly turned her toward him and saw the unease in her eyes, her lip blanched with worry. He placed her hand over his heart. She could feel it hammering against her fingertips. "What are you so afraid of?" A question she'd asked him once coming back to haunt her. He slipped his hand around her waist pulling her closer.

"Not afraid, Charles. Overcome," she confessed. "I never thought….at my age….."she faltered.

"I know," he admitted. "It quite sneaked up on us didn't it? A bonus. Do you know how very much I desire you?" he professed seductively, his declaration hot in her ear, his tongue teasing her earlobe.

He gloried in the little sounds of pleasure that she made as he kissed the spot just below her ear while his nimble fingers skimmed under the tie that held her nightgown in place at her left shoulder. She closed her eyes as a flush of heat warmed her as his finger traced the tie, the delicate silk of the nightgown along her the side of her breast. She heard him groan in approval.

"Oh, Elsie," he ground out her name, his tongue slipping as deftly over her name as his finger ghosted down the length of her arm. She shuttered at his touch. He kissed her shoulder with tiny worshipful nips, his lips moist, soft, and eager. He worked his way across her collarbone as she held him close, her fingers laced across his neck, her fingers weaving through his graying locks. Her hands drifted from his neck, down his broad shoulders, finally coming to rest on his chest.

She began to fidget with the buttons on his pajama shirt. Her hands trembling slightly. She hoped that he wouldn't notice. He did. He noticed everything about her. She finally loosened the first button and then with ease, the others followed suit. She shyly opened his pajama top, just barely pushing it open, not yet touching him. She had seen bare chested men before. Workmen on the farm and at Downton. Men who had taken ill. But she had never seen this man, her man. Instantly, her fingertips were drawn to the wiry patch of graying hair; a sensual mark of his maturity.

She dropped her hands and took his hand in one of hers. She led him to their bed. She was not afraid. Not afraid of him. Not of them. Not of this that was to happen between them.

As he sat on the side of the bed, she stood close before him. She had never really been able to study him before, the rules of the house never allowed it. But here, in their house, the plain band on her finger and the vows they had spoken, gave her the right to study his every feature. She marveled that this handsome man was hers. She slipped her hands under his pajama shirt, sliding it over his shoulders and down his arms. She folded it and laid it across the bed. She took a deep breath as she feasted on the sight in front of her. Taught arms, toned muscles, strong shoulders. Her beautiful man. Her hands fanned over his arms, chest, and stomach. He watched as her eyes darkened with something he had not seen before but instinctively knew the name of. She traced the shape of his ears, she loved his ears; he already knew that. Her fingernail gently scraped along his jaw, his chin, and over the jagged scar that marked him.

"I've always wanted to know," she questioned.

"A part of my misspent youth," he laughed. "A bar fight." He'd not tell her that Grigg had cheated at cards and two ruffians tried to beat the daylights out of them both. He'd not mention Grigg's name and ruin this lovely moment. They still disagreed on whether Grigg had truly reformed.

"Mr. Carson in a bar fight," she laughed merrily. "Charles, I'm shocked," she teased with false indignation. He huffed and pulled her closer into his embrace. She cradled his head between her breasts and he breathed in the scents of rose water and something that was uniquely Elsie.

His hands moved slowly under the hem of her nightgown; he mapped every curve and line of her legs, the luxurious fullness of her thighs, hips, and bottom. She was beautiful to him. He pushed her back gently so that he could stand and he leaned in to kiss her passionately. She ran her hands over his back, his shoulders, cradling his face with her hands. Her mother had taught her that her husband would teach her, would lead her. That it was unbecoming for a decent woman to be forward, even with her man. But she had had to push him, nudge him. She knew that he wanted her but that he would seek her permission to love her.

"Charles," his name as much a plea as anything else. "Touch me."

His hands, accustomed to touching the most delicate of objects, lovingly loosened one tie of her nightgown and then the other. The beautiful gold nightgown cascaded to the floor, pooling around her feet. If she had been anxious, he dispelled those notions instantly when he claimed her, turning her, placing her on their bed. Lavishing her body with kisses; Charles made sure that every part of her felt his touch. With each murmur of pleasure she made, she felt his smile on her skin.

Charles divested himself of his pajama bottoms and his undershorts. After years of friendship and more years of dancing around their feelings (and his fears of expressing them), they were finally together lying in their bed. Not in a marriage of convenience (like most might think) but a true marriage based on love and passion. They kissed, caressed, and, enjoyed one another, getting accustomed to this newness between them. Their bodies were no longer those of young lovers. A consequence of discovering this passion between them in this autumn of their lives. But neither minded. She didn't mind his paunch; he loved her full hips and breasts. Wondered if she truly believed him when he told her that she was beautiful.

He settled above her, leaned in, and kissed her reverently. He pulled back searching her eyes, asking an unspoken question. With one hand on his neck, another on his shoulder, she pulled him down to her. His strong and steady weight a comfort. Even when she had permitted herself to daydream of what intimacy with him might be like, she never imagined it so wonderful. He began the motion of slowly slipping inside her, the sensation of their joining warm and welcoming. He whispered loving, devoted words into her ear, sucked at the pulse point at her neck. He felt her hand brush his ribs, her other entwined in his hair. He had never dreamed that he could really be with her in this way. This act made holy their bond; it sealed the covenant they had pledged before God and man. Then he felt her thighs suddenly tense around him. She drew in a deep breath and held it, a wave of pain passing briefly over her face. He stopped and met her eyes. A pained expression, mirroring her own. "Have I…"

"No," she assured him. She traced his cheek, his jaw with her finger, combed through his hair. She loved him, wanted to be with him in every way. "It's just…"

"Are you sure?" He needed her reassurance. He'd not go any further without it. She nodded and smiled. He moved slowly and carefully, gently allowing them to come together in their own time. Nothing in Marie Stopes' book nor anything she had heard maids gossiping and giggling about over the years had prepared her for the overwhelming feeling of joy and completeness that washed over as she came together with her husband for the first time. This most intimate of acts, primal, binding. They two shall be one flesh.

She held him to her as he spilled himself inside her. She had dreamed of him, of this act between them. Though she had not experienced quiet everything described in the little marriage primer (it would be a couple of weeks before she would know the fullest pleasure of making love with Charles), Elsie Carson had everything she desired in her arms.


End file.
